"AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 


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"AS  IT  LOOKED TOHIM" 

t  INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON 

THE  WAR 

BY 

FIRST  LIEUT.  EMMET  N.  BRITTON 
U.S.A. 

HEADQUARTERS  COMPANY,  363D  REGIMENT 
A.  E.  F. 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED  AT  SAN  FRANCISCO 
DECEMBER  MDCCCCXIX 


DEDICATION 

TO  AN  AMERICAN  MOTHER  AND  DADDY 
WHOSE  GENEROSITY  AND  PATRIOTISM 
MADE  POSSIBLE  THE  WRITING  OF  THESE 
LETTERS,  THEY  ARE  AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED  BY  THEIR  SON 

EMMET  NICHOLSON  BRITTON 


2043843 


FOREWORD 

OCTOBER  23,  1919. 

IN  COMMON  with  many  thousands  of  patriotic  mothers 
and  fathers,  we  realized  the  necessity  for  upholding 
the  honor  of  our  country,  and  determined  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war  to  make  such  sacrifices  as  we  should  be  called 
upon  to  do.  The  greatest  of  sacrifices  made  by  fathers  and 
mothers  was  the  offering  of  their  sons  in  the  service. 

We  were  proud  that  our  youngest  boy,  following  the 
true  spirit  of  patriotism,  determined  to  be  one  of  the  first 
ten  thousand  to  offer  himself,  not  only  for  the  protection  of 
his  own  home  but  of  the  homes  of  those  in  oppressed 
Europe.  Our  boy  had  no  hesitancy  as  to  his  duty, 
although  he  left  behind  him  his  wife  and  two  loved  ones. 
He  went  through  the  fray,  and  we  thank  God  that  he  was 
spared  to  return  to  us. 

His  simple  story  is  told  in  the  following  pages;  they 
speak  of  his  ambitions,  his  hopes,  his  sufferings,  with  all 
the  ardor  of  youth  but  with  the  modesty  of  a  true  soldier. 

We  at  home  tried  to  do  our  part,  and  did  it  better  than 
it  possibly  could  have  been  done  because  of  the  realization 
that  he  was  "Over  There"  doing  his  part. 

This  book  is  printed  and  preserved  for  him  and  his 
family — a  record  of  which  anyone  should  be  proud. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PRELUDE              —Ax  HOME,  AUGUST  5,  1919     .       .       .  11 

CHAPTER             I — SOMEWHERE  ON  THE  ATLANTIC  .       .  17 

CHAPTER            II — FOREIGN  IMPRESSIONS      .       .       .  '    .  22 

CHAPTER          III — OLD  ENGLAND  vs.  FRANCE  .       .       .  24 

CHAPTER           IV — IN  FRANCE     •    .       .       .'      .       .       .  31 

CHAPTER            V — REFLECTIONS 35 

CHAPTER          VI — SUNDAY  MORNINGS  ...      .       *       .  37 

CHAPTER         VII — ANTICIPATION ;  40 

CHAPTER       VIII — READY  FOR  THE  FRAY      ....  42 

CHAPTER          IX — PREPAREDNESS      .....  44 

CHAPTER           X— THE  DAYS  BEFORE   .       .       ...  47 

CHAPTER          XI — ANTICIPATION.       .       .       .       .       ,  50 

CHAPTER        XII— AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  ARGONNE  .       .  54 

CHAPTER       XIII— FRANCE,  OCTOBER  11,  1918.       .       .  57 

CHAPTER       XIV — A  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.       .              .       .  58 

CHAPTER         XV — RECOVERY      ......  62 

CHAPTER       XVI — MEMORIES 63 

CHAPTER      XVII— WHEN  GOOD  FELLOWS  GET  TOGETHER  65 

CHAPTER    XVIII — ANTICIPATION    .       .       .       .       .       .  67 

CHAPTER       XIX — LA  GUERRE  FINIS.       .       .       .       .  69 

CHAPTER         XX — RETROSPECTIVE         .       .     ".       .       .  72 

CHAPTER       XXI— NEWS  FROM  HOME       ....  78 

CHAPTER     XXII— WAITING     .       .       .       .       .       .       .  82 

CHAPTER    XXIII— THE  FUTURE 85 

CHAPTER     XXIV — STRAY  THOUGHTS 90 

CHAPTER      XXV — FRIENDSHIP .94 

CHAPTER     XXVI— HOMEWARD  BOUND  .....  97 

CHAPTER  XXVII— POSTSCRIPTUM                            .       ,  99 
CHAPTER  XXVI 1 1— To  A  FRIEND     .       .       .       .       .       .101 

CHAPTER    XXIX— S.  O.  S 105 

CHAPTER      XXX — LETTER  TO  MRS.  L.  M.  JUDD  .       .       .108 

CHAPTER    XXXI — COPY  FROM  NEWSPAPER  CLIPPING  .  110 

CHAPTER  XXXII — REGISTER  OF  SERVICE      .       .       .       .  112 

LETTER  FROM  CHAS.  C.  MOORE  TO  JOHN  A.  BRITTON    .       .  1 20 

LETTER  FROM  R.  B.  HALE  TO  JOHN  A.  BRITTON      ,       .  .121 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
FRONTISPIECE — BRITTON  FAMILY   ....        FACING  TITLE 

FACING  PAGE 

"THE  AUTHOR" 12 

THE  AUTHOR— ONE  YEAR.          .  '  .   ..       .       .      .       .       .  14 

THE  AUTHOR — TWELVE  YEARS       .      .       .       .      ,       ..  16 

THE  AUTHOR — TWENTY-ONE  YEARS  .       .       .       .       .       .18 

WHITE  STAR  S.  S.  Cretic,  BOUND  OVER  THERE    .       .       ,  20 

"MOTHER"      .      .      .      ,       ,       .       .       .       *       .       .  24 

"DAD"  ............  44 

AUTHOR'S  FAMILY 40 

"DuN  MOVIN"  HOME  OF  "MOTHER"  AND  "DAD"      .         .  78 
U.  S.  S.  Kentuckian,  HOMEWARD  BOUND,   363o  REGIMENT, 

A.E.F.                                                                           .  100 


PRELUDE 

AT  HOME,  AUGUST  5,  1919. 

DEAR  DAD  O'MiNE: 

OOMEWHERE  in  my  browsing  through  English 
^^  literature  I  have  read  that  when  a  man  feels  him- 
self slipping,  and  is  about  to  become  "passe,"  he  writes 
his  "Memoirs"  or  Autobiography.  So  it  has  been  with 
quite  a  bit  of  reluctance  that  I  have  started  my  little  pre- 
face to  the  letters  written  to  you  from  overseas.  As  all 
of  the  books  will  be  given  to  just  the  family  and  a  very 
few  personal  friends  I  am  liable  to  become  familiar,  senti- 
mental and  even  maudlin  in  spots,  but  knowing  that  you 
will  rigidly  censor  this  I  am  giving  myself  a  free  rein. 

Born  in  Oakland  on  January  21,  1892,  I  spent  the 
first  twelve  years  of  my  life  in  that  town,  growing  up  as 
almost  every  healthy  young  American  does  with  a  love 
of  the  great  outdoors,  and  being  blessed  by  my  Irish 
forebears  with  an  extremely  vivid  imagination  I  had  a 
great  love  also  for  books  and  adventure,  and  rainy  days 
would  find  me  stretched  out  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
fireplace,  elbows  on  the  floor  and  chin  cupped  in  my 
hands,  eagerly  devouring  all  of  the  books  of  life  in  the 
open  and  adventure  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on. 
Between  these  two  youthful  loves  of  mine  I  never  had 
a  restful  moment  for  one  of  them  was  bound  to  be  pull- 
ing at  me  all  the  time,  and  as  a  result  my  habits  of 
living  became  so  irregular  as  to  undermine  what  little 
strength  a  hard  siege  of  scarlet  fever  had  left  me. 

So  at  the  age  of  twelve  I  was  sent  to  St.  Matthews 
Military  School,  near  San  Mateo,  with  my  brother, 
John  A.  Jr.,  who  was  three  years  older  than  I  and  four 


12  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

years  ahead  of  me  in  school.  That  breaking  away  from 
home  at  that  age  proved  to  be  one  of  the  turning  points 
in  my  life.  Until  that  time,  being  the  youngest  of  five 
children,  I  had  been  more  or  less  spoiled,  partly  on 
account  of  my  having  been  ill,  and  I  had  become  selfish, 
bad  tempered  and  my  feelings  were  very  easily  hurt. 
During  the  first  three  months  at  school  I  was  certainly 
a  homesick  little  lad  but  a  youngster  of  that  age  can 
adapt  himself  to  his  environment  very  easily,  and  con- 
sequently by  the  time  of  the  winter  rains  I  was  a  typical 
boarding  school  boy,  self-reliant,  independent,  cocky  as 
a  young  bantam  rooster,  and  all  of  the  meanness  had 
either  been  kicked  or  knocked  out  of  me,  or  regular 
meals,  exercise  and  regular  hours  had  brought  me 
around  to  a  more  normal  way  of  looking  at  things. 

I  graduated  from  St.  Matthews  in  1910,  having  taken 
part  in  all  of  the  school  activities,  especially  football. 
Up  until  this  time  I  had  figured  on  becoming  a  doctor 
but  I  entered  the  University  of  California  that  fall 
registered  in  the  College  of  Commerce.  For  four  years 
I  attended  the  University,  being  registered  at  various 
times  in  the  Colleges  of  Social  Science,  Pre-Medical  and 
Dental.  As  a  result  I  received  a  broad  liberal  education 
and  I  have  never  regretted  the  action  that  I  took. 

Leaving  the  University  in  May,  1914,  I  started  to 
work  for  the  Pacific  Gas  &  Electric  Company  in  a  camp 
in  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains,  just  above  Drum 
Power  House.  Here  I  worked  at  whatever  presented 
itself  and  while  one  day  I  might  be  shovelling  concrete, 
the  next  day  I  might  be  a  "bull-cook,"  carrying  coal 
and  slops  for  the  cook.  It  was  there  I  first  came  to  know 
James  Martin,  the  Manager  of  Drum  District,  one  of 
the  most  loyal  workers  I  have  ever  known,  a  man  setting 
a  hard  pace  for  his  employees  but  expecting  them  to 


/ 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  1 3 

give  to  their  work  the  same  untiring  zeal  and  devotion 
that  he  put  into  his  own  work.  With  such  a  man  to  set 
the  pace  I  knew  that  I  would  learn,  so  I  decided  to  stay 
with  him  until  I  knew  that  district  better  than  any 
other  man  in  it. 

In  July,  1914, 1  was  called  to  San  Francisco  and  much 
to  my  surprise  put  aboard  the  "Tenyo  Maru"  for  Japan. 
It  was  a  wonderful  trip  and  I  spent  a  week  in  the 
"Flowery  Kingdom,"  loving  California  better  the  more 
I  saw  of  Japan,  but  it  was  just  what  I  needed  to  finish 
my  education.  September  of  the  same  year  saw  me 
back  in  Drum  District  with  headquarters  at  Colfax 
where  the  district  office  is  located  and  once  more  I  tore 
into  the  work  of  learning  all  I  could  of  the  old  "South 
Yuba  Water"  System  and  the  improvements  that  had 
been  made  on  it  by  the  present  company. 

I  made  some  mighty  close  friends  up  in  the  hills  and 
talked  to  the  "old  timers"  at  every  available  oppor- 
tunity upon  the  past  history  of  the  system.  For  three 
years  I  was  out  every  day  covering  the  ground  on  foot, 
horse-back,  on  skii  and  in  automobile,  and  loving  the 
game,  gave  it  all  I  had  of  body  and  brain  and  strove  to 
make  all  of  the  men  believe  in  and  work  for  "Pacific 
Service"  harder  than  they  would  for  their  own  salva- 
tion. I  have  put  in  a  good  many  sixty  hour  shifts  to 
keep  the  water  going  down  the  ditches  while  the  people 
in  the  valley  below  turned  out  their  lights  and  went  to 
bed  little  knowing  or  caring  of  the  fight  that  was  being 
made  against  snow,  wind,  ice  and  zero  weather. 

When  in  November,  1914,  I  was  promoted  to 
"General  Man"  with  an  income  of  ninety  dollars  per 
month,  I  figured  that  two  could  live  as  cheaply  as  one 
and  began  to  close  a  life  contract  with  Reba  Boalt  of  St. 
Helena,  who  was  at  that  time  attending  Mills  College. 


14  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

On  March  24,  1915,  the  contract  was  signed  by  both 
parties,  with  proper  ceremonies  and  in  front  of  a  goodly 
number  of  witnesses  at  Grace  Church,  St.  Helena,  and 
three  days  later  we  were  up  in  the  hills.  Right  here  and 
now  I  want  to  state  that  I  have  always  been  lucky,  but 
the  day  I  made  Becky  Boalt  add  the  name  of  Britton 
to  her  legal  signature  was  the  luckiest  day  of  my  life. 
No  man  has  ever  had  a  better  wife  and  it  would  be 
impossible  to  find  a  kinder,  more  cheerful,  more  sensible 
or  more  patriotic  little  lady  in  the  whole  realms  of  the 
U.  S.  A.  She  has  not  only  been  my  help-mate  but  my 
check-mate,  when  I  needed  it,  and  to  her  may  all  be 
happiness  and  love  for  all  of  her  days.  A  perfect  mother, 
a  perfect  mate,  and  as  cheering  in  the  hour  of  darkness 
as  the  song  of  a  sky  lark  high  overhead  on  a  dewy  morn- 
ing. God  bless  her. 

The  world  war  had  broken  out  while  I  was  on  my 
way  to  Japan  and  when  on  April  6,  1917,  the  United 
States  declared  war  against  the  Central  Powers,  Becky 
B.  and  I  talked  it  all  over  and  I  immediately  offered  my 
services  to  the  Government,  as  I  had  graduated  from  a 
military  school  with  the  rank  of  a  Cadet  Major  and  was 
egotistical  enough  to  believe  that  I  would  lead  soldiers 
even  as  I  had  led  my  men  in  the  hills. 

So  on  May  1,  1917,  I  left  Coif  ax  and  a  few  days  later 
entered  the  first  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  the  Presidio 
of  San  Francisco.  For  three  months  we  were  pushed  and 
pulled  around  by  a  bunch  of  West  Pointers  who  des- 
paired of  ever  making  officers  of  us,  and,  feeling  as  if  I 
had  been  pulled  out  of  a  whirlpool,  I  found  myself  on 
the  morning  of  August  14,  1917,  with  a  commission  of  a 
Second  Lieutenant  in  the  Reserve  Corps  in  one  hand  and 
travel  orders  to  proceed  to  Camp  Lewis,  Washington, 
not  later  than  August  29,  in  the  other.  Two  weeks'  time 


THE  AUTHOR 
1   YEAR 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  1 5 

in  which  to  get  all  dolled  up  as  an  officer  with  several 
hundred  dollars'  worth  of  equipment  and  get  to  a  point 
a  thousand  miles  north  of  San  Francisco. 

I  won't  try  to  describe  the  bustle  and  hustle  of 
getting  fixed  up  and  away  but  on  the  destined  day  I 
landed  knee  deep  in  dust  on  the  soil  of  Camp  Lewis. 
Try  to  imagine  a  town  built  in  the  shape  of  a  horseshoe 
large  enough  to  accommodate  forty  thousand  men,  all 
the  buildings  being  made  from  one  set  of  blue-prints  and 
put  up  in  three  months.  For  a  few  days  we  simply  sat 
around  trying  to  get  used  to  ourselves  and  on  September 
4th,  the  363d  Infantry  sprang  into  life  with  Colonel 
Harry  LaT.  Cavenaugh  commanding,  and,  with  about 
one  hundred  other  "officers  by  special  Act  of  Congress," 
I  had  the  right  to  wear  cross  guns  with  363  on  them  on 
my  collar.  In  the  next  two  days  the  Colonel  tried  to 
learn  all  of  our  names  and  previous  conditions  of  servi- 
tude so  on  September  7th  in  G.  O.  No.  1 — Hq.  363d 
Infantry,  I  was  assigned  to  Headquarters  Company  as 
Signal  Officer.  I  suppose  because  I  had  worked  for  a 
Public  Utility,  one  of  whose  jobs  was  the  supplying  of 
electricity  to  a  bunch  of  chronic  kickers  generally  known 
as  the  Public,  I  was  picked  out  for  a  technical  job  about 
which  I  had  no  knowledge  whatever. 

For  the  next  eight  months  I  studied  and  worked 
harder  than  I  ever  had  before  and  the  one  month  that 
I  put  in  at  Fort  Sill  in  Oklahoma  studying  various  forms 
of  signalling,  from  radio  to  arm  signals,  was  the  hardest 
of  all.  We  all  knew  that  we  were  due  to  depart  for 
France,  so  when  I  received  word  that  I  would  leave  in 
the  advance  party  to  attend  the  First  Corps  Signal 
School  I  was  not  really  surprised  but  I  was  some  excited. 

On  June  19th,  1918,  I  left  Camp  Lewis,  taking  two  of 
my  Sergeants,  O'Brien  and  Trusty,  with  me.  My  bunkie 


16  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

and  inseparable  companion,  Lieutenant  Arthur  L.  Erb 
of  San  Francisco,  was  also  in  the  advance  party  and  I 
honestly  believe  a  finer  lad  never  lived.  Square  as  a  die, 
a  straight  shooter  and  a  wonderful  officer,  he  is  the  best 
friend  I  own,  and  our  friendship  was  proved  on  the  field 
of  battle  in  more  ways  than  one.  Our  trip  across  the 
continent  to  New  York  was  uneventful  but  when  we 
landed  in  Camp  Merritt  and  had  leave  to  go  to  New 
York,  Art  and  I  looked  up  his  brother  and  for  three  days 
we  were  on  the  go  all  of  the  time.  It  was  a  grand  and 
glorious  send  off  and  one  that  tickled  the  cockles  of  the 
heart  and  formed  the  basis  of  many  a  conversation  dur- 
ing the  fourteen  long  days  between  New  York  and 
Liverpool  while  we  were  dodging  subs.  On  June  28, 
1918,  we  embarked  on  the  White  Star  Liner,  Cretic, 
dropping  down  past  the  "Old  Girl  with  the  Lamp"  the 
next  morning  and  becoming  an  integral  part  of  the 
American  Expeditionary  Force. 

EMMET. 


THE  AUTHOR 
12  YEARS 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  17 


CHAPTER  I 

SOMEWHERE  ON  THE  ATLANTIC, 
MONDAY,  JULY  1,  1918. 

MY  DEAR  DAD  AND  PEOPLE  ALL  : 

THIS  is  the  fourth  day  out  and  so  far  no  excitement 
of  any  sort,  although  plenty  of  work  to  break  the 
monotony  of  a  long  sea  voyage  which  is  progressing  very 
slowly — not  over  twelve  knots  an  hour.  I  have  no  idea 
how  many  troops  we  have  on  board  but,  believe  me,  we 
are  utilizing  every  spare  cubic  inch  to  store  them  away. 
This  ship  used  to  be  on  the  Mediterranean  run  and  is  not 
a  first  class  vessel — nowhere  near  as  nicely  appointed  as 
the  Tenyo  Maru  or  the  Siberia — though  of  the  vintage 
of  1902.  The  crew  and  all  are  English  and  so  different 
from  the  Asiatics  of  my  other  voyage.  Some  of  the 
little  cabin  boys  would  warm  the  cockles  of  your  heart, 
lads  of  six,  eight  and  ten  years  of  age  with  faces  like 
cherubs,  in  sailor  suits,  but  with  their  cockney  expres- 
sions ruining  the  whole  picture  as  soon  as  they  open 
their  mouths.  But  they  are  brave  little  tads  with  it  all, 
and  even  when  pattering  around  barefoot  over  the  wet 
decks  in  the  early  morning  you  will  always  get  a  bright 
smile  flashed  at  you  if  you  speak  to  them. 

Day  before  yesterday  I  was  down  in  one  of  the 
compartments  of  what  used  to  be  the  steerage,  with  the 
men.  The  idea  is  to  have  an  officer  in  one  of  those 
compartments  at  all  times  so  that  in  case  of  an  emer- 
gency he  will  promptly  stop  all  tendencies  toward  a 
panic,  see  that  all  men  get  on  deck,  quickly  but  without 
disorder,  and  then  the  officer  follows.  He  is  armed,  of 
course,  and  has  instructions  to  enforce  discipline  no 


18  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

matter  what  means  he  has  to  employ.  I  was  down  below 
for  eight  hours,  from  8  p.m.  to  4  a.m.,  and  we  were  hav- 
ing a  little  rough  weather  at  the  time.  The  air  was  foul 
and  ninety-five  of  the  men  were  sick,  and  quite  often  we 
shipped  a  sea  through  the  open  hatchway,  so  there  was 
about  six  inches  of  water  all  over.  It  seemed  like  one  of 
Gustave  Dore's  pictures  of  the  Inferno  with  a  flickering 
half  light  showing  the  tossing,  writhing  figures  of  close- 
packed  men,  suffering  bodily  discomforts  and  mental 
unrest.  For  none  of  them  were  allowed  to  remove  a 
single  garment,  though  it  was  stifling  hot  and  they  slept 
with  their  life-preservers  on. 

However,  that  is  all  over  now.  The  sea  is  calm,  the 
air  warm  and  balmy,  we  are  out  of  the  danger  zone  and 
the  men  are  over  their  mat  de  mer  and  able  to  undress 
fully  and  so  sleep  comfortably.  We  have  about  four 
days  now  of  easy  going  when  we  enter  the  danger  zone 
again  and  we  will  be  in  it  about  four  days. 

Through  all  of  their  trials  and  troubles  the  men  have 
maintained  a  wonderful  spirit  and  they  are  all  ready 
and  eager  to  get  in  and  finish  it  all  up.  One  of  my  ser- 
geants was  horribly  sick  and  was  lying  on  deck  all  in  as 
I  came  by.  I  asked  him  how  he  felt  and  he  sprang  to 
attention  at  once,  though  he  had  to  hold  on  to  a  rope  to 
keep  on  his  feet.  "Pretty  rotten,  sir,"  he  answered, 
"but  I'm  going  to  give  the  first  Hun  I  meet  hell  for 
making  me  suffer  like  this."  And  that  is  the  spirit  all  the 
way  through ;  whatever  hardship  they  suffer  they  blame 
the  Hun  for  it  and  are  firmly  determined  to  take  it  out 
of  his  hide. 

Yesterday  I  was  on  watch  for  six  hours,  being  posted 
well  forward  on  the  starboard  side  of  the  vessel,  and 
though  I  strained  my  eyes  and  used  my  binoculars 
incessantly,  I  saw  nothing  except  flying  fish,  sea-weed 


THE  AUTHOR 
21   YEARS 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  19 

and  the  other  vessels  of  our  consort.  Today  I  go  on 
watch  below  with  the  troops  again,  so  what  with 
watches  and  boat  drills  twice  a  day  you  can  see  we  have 
but  little  time  to  run  around. 

When  we  dropped  out  past  the  Statue  of  Liberty  we 
picked  up  the  other  members  of  the  fleet  and  our  con- 
voy. All  of  the  convoy  accompanied  us  for  about  a 
hundred  miles,  when  all  except  the  cruiser  turned  back. 
It  still  is  leading  the  way  and  the  balance  of  us  are 
following  in  a  staggered  column  three  abreast.  It  is 
quite  a  wonderful  sight,  especially  at  night  when  you 
know  a  ship  is  close  but  you  cannot  see  it.  For  all  lights 
are  out  and  no  one  is  allowed  to  smoke  on  deck,  so  you 
can  imagine  us  slipping  along  like  ghosts  that  have  been 
daubed  at  with  a  paint  brush  and  bucket  by  an  insane 
futurist  artist.  In  the  garish  light  of  day  they  are 
hideous,  like  Indians  with  their  war  paint  on,  but  in  the 
soft  half  light  of  dawn  or  dusk  they  trick  the  brain  like  a 
drunken  phantasy,  some  seeming  much  smaller,  some 
like  two  ships  passing,  some  resembling  a  cloud  forma- 
tion, and  all  on  account  of  some  vari-colored  paint, 
apparently  daubed  on  without  rhyme  or  reason. 

I  can't  grasp  the  idea  yet  that  I  have  embarked  upon 
the  Great  Adventure.  This  seems  like  a  pleasure  voyage 
and  all  the  lookouts,  lifeboat  drill  and  all  other  work  so 
much  child's  play.  Like  when  I  was  a  kiddie  in  Linda 
Vista  I  used  to  take  my  air  gun  and  stalk  Indians  through 
tall  grass  in  the  vacant  lots.  It  is  hard  to  realize  I  am 
playing  a  big  vital  game  of  hare  and  hounds,  and  I, 
myself,  am  one  of  the  hares ;  that  there  are  people  out 
hunting  for  me  with  all  manner  of  devices;  that  some 
forty  million  people  would  be  glad  if  I  and  all  of  my 
travelling  companions  were  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  this 
old  salt  pond.  I  am  afraid  we  have  all  led  too  sheltered 


20  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

and  secluded  and  peaceful  lives  for  that  realization  to 
strike  home.  Nor  will  it  until  we  actually  see  or  feel 
some  violence  directed  directly  against  us.  Then,  I 
imagine,  all  our  fighting  blood,  our  primal  instinct  to 
injure  that  which  would  injure  us,  will  become  rampant. 
We  will  allow  all  of  our  primal  instincts  to  run  rife  and 
the  lust  to  kill  will  come.  Right  now  I  bear  no  personal 
hate  toward  the  Hun  but  more  of  the  feeling  that  I  have 
had  when  sitting  on  a  court-martial.  The  Hun  has  done 
wrong,  therefore  he  must  be  punished.  But  no  bitterness 
is  in  my  soul  and  if  I  can  fully  do  my  duty  without  it 
entering  into  my  heart  I  pray  to  God  that  I  may  do  so. 
For  bitterness  is  too  liable  to  warp  one's  outlook  on  life 
so  that  none  of  the  beautiful  things  may  be  enjoyed. 
Did  you  ever  notice  that  if  you  have  done  a  good  deed 
the  whole  world  seems  a  far  more  beautiful  place,  the 
birds  sing  sweeter  and  you  are  glad  you  are  alive?  But 
if  you  have  hate  or  bitterness  in  your  heart  you  do  not 
notice  the  beauties  or  the  birds,  and  the  desire  to  live 
and  love  is  nil.  Therefore  my  prayer.  But  make  no 
mistake,  if  in  order  to  lick  the  Hun  it  is  going  to  be 
necessary  for  me  to  hate,  then  I  will  be  one  of  the  best 
little  haters  in  the  A.  E.  F.  That  will  have  to  be  decided 
later,  and  if  hate  I  must,  then  after  my  return  it  will  be 
up  to  all  of  you  by  the  loving  kindness  you  have  always 
shown  me  to  draw  that  out  of  my  nature  so  that  once 
more  I  may  enjoy  the  beautiful  things  that  made  life 
worth  while. 

Life  always  has  been  very  much  worth  while  to  me, 
for  I  have  had  a  wonderful  life.  I  have  been  given  every 
comfort  and  luxury  that  is  good  for  a  man  to  have. 
With  my  wonderful  wife  I  have  lived  for  three  years 
amongst  the  glories  of  God  in  the  high  hills  and  been 
nearer  to  Him  than  any  of  you  (conceited?  yes),  and  I 


3  I 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  21 

have  been  blessed  with  two  wonderful  babies.  If  I  had 
my  life  to  live  over  again  I  would  not  change  it  one  iota 
for  fear  that  the  climax — my  three  years  of  supreme 
happiness  with  my  wife — might  not  be  quite  the  same. 
We  have  been  perfectly  happy  in  our  love,  and  no 
matter  what  happened  my  dear  little  lady  was  always 
the  same  dear,  sweet,  kind  and  precious  girl.  It  is  because 
I  care  so  much  for  her  that  I  have  come  to  this.  Think 
that  over ;  it  is  not  an  enigma,  but  a  plain  unvarnished 
truth. 

For  the  many  things  you  have  done  for  me,  all  of 
you,  please  accept  my  thanks.  More  I  cannot  give  you 
right  now.  And  may  the  good  God  bless  you  all  and 
keep  you  all  safe  and  sound  until  I  come  back.  And 
when  I  do  come  back,  kill  the  fatted  calf ;  for  the  prod- 
igal will  return,  never  again  to  roam  very  far  away. 
Just  lots  of  love  to  all  you  people  and  keep  a  good 
thought  for 

THE  KID. 


22  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  II 

FOREIGN  IMPRESSIONS 

FRANCE,  JULY  17,  1918. 
MY  VERY  DEAR  PADRE  : 

JUST  a  wee  bit  of  a  note,  Dad,  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
sent  you  quite  a  long  letter  via  Becky.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  my  doing  that  as  it  saves  me  quite  a  bit  of 
writing.  In  other  words,  instead  of  having  to  repeat  a 
lot  of  description  in  the  letters  to  her  I  can  spend  all  of 
that  time  in  telling  her  how  much  I  love  her.  So  I  can 
kill  two  birdies  with  one  brick. 

I  am  not  keeping  a  diary,  although  I  know  I  should, 
so  will  you  keep  my  letters  or  have  a  copy  of  them  made 
for  me  so  I  can  keep  them  ?  They  are  merely  impressions 
set  down  by  me  in  a  haphazard  manner,  but  when  I  get 
back  it  will  be  interesting  to  note  just  what  my  impres- 
sions were  at  first  sight.  For  I  can  easily  see  that  one's 
impressions  are  going  to  be  varied  and  "subject  to 
change  without  notice."  Thank  you. 

When  I  got  to  New  York  I  drew  cash  from  the  Chase 
National  Bank  and  had  it  fix  my  credit  here  in  France 
(Paris).  It  was  a  good  thing  I  did  so,  for  we  were  on 
our  own  resources  from  the  time  we  hit  England  and  it 
costs  something  to  eat  in  these  parts.  Also,  I  will  not 
get  anything  from  U.  S.  until  August  1st,  so  once  again 
you  have  proved  a  life-saver  for  me.  It  is  useless  for  me 
to  try  to  thank  you,  Dad,  for  all  you  have  done  for  me, 
for  I  can  never  find  words  adequate  to  express  just  what 
I  feel.  But  you  have  just  to  say  the  word,  Dad,  and  if 
it  can  be  done  by  man  I'll  do  it  for  you.  Right  now  I 
feel  you  want  me  to  do  my  bit  to  the  best  of  my  ability ; 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  23 

to  be  true  to  Becky,  you  folks  and  myself ;  and  above  all 
and  what  it  really  all  means,  to  be  worthy  of  the  name 
of  Britton  and  to  be  a  worthy  son  of  you. 

Those  things  I  will  do,  Dad,  and  when  it  is  all  over 
I  want  to  come  home  to  you,  shake  you  hand  and  say 
"Dad,  I  did  my  durndest." 

Ever, 

THE  NIGGER. 


24  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  III 

OLD  ENGLAND  VERSUS  FRANCE 

"OVER  THERE,"  JULY  17,  1918. 
DEAR  PEOPLE  ALL  VIA  BECKY  : 

AT  LAST,  after  travelling  steadily  for  four  weeks 
to  the  day,  we  arrived  at  our  destination  some- 
where in  France,  and  not  so  far  behind  the  lines  that  it 
is  impossible  to  hear  the  big  guns  booming  out  their  war 
cry.  In  the  quiet  of  the  evening  the  sound  of  them 
reminds  one  of  the  surf  pounding  on  a  beach  a  long  way 
off;  only  here  the  constant  vibration  of  the  air  accom- 
panies the  sound  and  the  combination  of  the  two  makes 
the  pulse  beat  a  little  quicker  and  one  becomes  impa- 
tient and  longs  for  the  time  when  that  sound  will  be 
overhead,  and  right  ahead  a  matter  of  a  few  hundred 
yards  will  be  your  objective — the  Hun's  trench.  For  it 
isn't  going  to  be  a  big  drive  to  Berlin  but  simply  a 
matter  of  taking  the  trench  just  ahead,  and  then  as 
soon  as  that  is  reached,  setting  your  objective  ahead  a 
little  bit  more  and  going  after  it.  Not  unlike  the  game 
of  life,  is  it,  for  we  establish  an  ideal  and  as  soon  as  it  is 
obtained  we  immediately  set  our  eyes  on  another  a 
little  closer  to  the  ultimate  goal  and  work  toward  it. 
I  don't  mean  to  be  a  penny  philosopher,  but  I  couldn't 
help  making  the  comparison  as  it  was  so  obvious  to  me. 
We  landed  in  England  a  week  ago  today  and 
immediately  entrained  and  were  whirled  through  the 
country  on  an  all-day  trip  which  I  enjoyed  more  than 
any  similar  day's  journey  on  the  whole  trip.  The 
country  is  as  neat  and  clean  throughout  as  a  new  pin 
and  all  of  the  fields  are  marked  by  a  little  hedge  instead 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  25 

of  the  ugly,  practical  American  barbed  wire.  All  of  the 
roads  are  well  paved  and  lined  with  shade  trees  and  box 
hedges  through  which  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  quaint 
old  houses  built  of  brick  with  a  brick  thatched-roof  barn 
in  back.  In  the  larger  cities  there  are  row  after  row  of 
brick  houses,  all  alike,  with  immaculate  white  curtains 
at  every  window,  and  flower  pots  strewn  around 
promiscuously.  There  don't  seem  to  be  any  squalid  or 
dirty  hovels  such  as  are  found  in  our  American  cities. 
In  fact  if  I  were  asked  what  England  reminded  me  of 
I  would  say,  Ivory  Soap,  it  is  99  44/100  per  cent  pure. 

When  we  reached  our  destination,  another  seaport, 
we  went  into  a  rest  camp  for  the  night,  embarking  for 
France  the  next  day  at  noon.  Believe  me  that  trip  across 
the  Channel  was  hell.  We  were  on  a  small  boat  and  the 
wind  almost  amounted  to  a  gale  so  that  the  decks  were 
awash  most  of  the  time.  It  was  a  hot  sultry  night,  and 
all  the  ports  being  closed  did  not  help  any.  There  were 
no  bunks,  so  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  officers 
crowded  into  the  dining  saloon,  which  was  the  only 
available  space  on  the  boat  for  us,  and  lay  down  on  the 
floor  and  completely  covered  it  so  that  the  few  who 
straggled  in  later  had  to  lie  on  the  four  foot  by  four  foot 
tables,  and  one  even  climbed  up  and  stretched  out  on 
the  buffet.  Of  course  some  of  the  lads  got  sick  and  the 
only  possible  way  to  get  out  was  to  step  on  the  men 
lying  down.  I  was  stepped  on  no  less  than  eight  times 
before  I  drifted  into  a  state  of  coma — I  can't  call  it 
sleep — and  then  I  quit  counting. 

When  we  landed  in  France  we  went  to  a  British  rest 
camp,  and  there  we  stayed  until  we  entrained  Sunday 
for  this  place.  While  at  the  rest  camp  we  ate  at  the 
E.  F.  C.  (Expeditionary  Forces  Canteen)  which  is  run 
by  the  W.  A.  A.  C.  (Woman's  Auxiliary  Army  Corps), 


26  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

and  I  want  to  say  right  here  and  now  that  they  are  doing 
perfectly  wonderful  work.  They  are  enlisted  for  the 
duration  of  the  war,  wear  uniforms  which  are  O.  D.,  a 
tunic  like  a  Russian  blouse  with  a  red  shoulder  strap 
with  W.  A.  A.  C.  on  it  in  gold,  a  knee  length — or  rather 
about  three  inches  below  the  knee — skirt,  heavy  knit 
woolen  O.  D.  stockings,  and  tan  oxfords.  It  is  a  good 
practical  uniform,  and  most  of  them  have  their  hair 
bobbed  and  wear  a  hat  not  unlike  our  campaign  hat  with 
the  brim  pinned  up  on  the  left  side  by  the  W.  A.  A.  C. 
pin.  They  are  doing  every  kind  of  work  in  the  Army 
that  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  do,  and  no  man  in 
uniform  is  doing  any  kind  of  light  work  unless  he  is 
crippled. 

The  W.  A.  A.C.s  run  the  officers'  rest  billets,  drive  staff 
cars  and  motor  trucks,  act  as  motorcycle  messengers, 
work  in  the  ordnance,  commissary  and  supply  ware- 
houses, and  you  are  eternally  finding  them  in  some  out- 
of-the-way,  unexpected  place.  They  are  kind  and 
courteous,  bright  and  smiling  always,  and  they  have  the 
profound  respect  of  the  officers  and  men.  With  their 
uniforms  they  can  go  anywhere,  any  time,  and  be  safer 
than  they  ever  were  before  in  all  of  their  lives — safer 
than  they  were  in  their  own  homes  in  England.  Hats 
off  to  the  W.A. A.C.s,  and  may  God  bless  them,  for  they 
will  surely  get  their  due  reward  in  heaven. 

While  at  the  camp  I  had  the  opportunity  of  visiting 
a  large  seaport  town  of  France,  and,  believe  me,  some 
filth.  You  people  know  how  dirty  Yokohama  is — it 
can't  hold  a  candle  to  any  of  these  French  towns  which 
are  the  most  disgusting  places  I  have  ever  been  in.  For 
unsanitary  customs  that  are  vile  and  would  make  any 
American  blush  with  shame,  this  country  wins  hands 
down.  And  the  less  said  about  the  morals  of  the  place 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  27 

the  better.  Thank  God  I  am  married,  for  this  is  no  place 
for  a  single  man.  The  only  comfort  I  have  found  here 
is  the  fact  that  you  can  buy  a  quart  of  beer  for  seventy- 
five  centimes,  or  about  fifteen  cents.  If  I  ever  had  any 
illusions  about  fighting  for  La  Belle  France  they  are 
gone ;  I  am  fighting  for  the  sanctity  of  womanhood  and 
the  protection  of  my  home,  my  wife  and  my  kiddies. 

We  were  two  days  and  two  nights  on  the  train  com- 
ing here,  and  on  the  trip  we  lived  on  bully  beef  and  dry 
bread  washed  down  with  red  wine.  I  wouldn't  drink  the 
water  here  on  a  bet  in  spite  of  my  extra  shots  of  triple 
typhoid.  There  were  eight  of  us  crowded  into  a  com- 
partment smaller  than  a  compartment  on  a  Pullman, 
and  in  there  we  sat  and  slept  sitting  up.  If  the  trip  had 
lasted  another  day  I'm  afraid  there  would  have  been 
murder,  for  we  reached  here  short  of  sleep,  temper  and 
grub,  and  long  of  whiskers.  So  when  we  sat  down  to  a 
real  honest  to  God  American  lunch  yesterday  noon, 
with  real  jpie  and  coffee,  it  certainly  would  have  done 
your  heart  good  to  see  us  pile  into  it.  A  real  bath  and 
nap  yesterday  afternoon  with  a  short  walk  to  the  village 
near  here,  then  a  big  supper,  a  pipe  and  book  for  an  hour 
and  then  the  first  real  sleep — twelve  hours  of  it — since 
leaving  Camp  Lewis;  for  we  didn't  sleep  well  on  the 
train — we  were  too  excited — nor  on  the  boat,  for  we  had 
to  have  all  of  our  clothes  on,  and  since  landing  in 
England  we  haven't  seen  a  real  bed;  so  you  can  imagine 
how  good  it  felt  to  slip  between  clean  sheets,  use  a  pillow 
with  a  clean  pillow  slip  and  have  soft  stuff  under  you 
and  clean,  soft  blankets  over  you. 

The  camp  here  is  located  upon  a  plateau,  high  and 
dry,  and  far  enough  away  from  any  source  of  infection. 
And  it  is  clean,  as  only  an  American  camp  can  be.  It 
certainly  seems  good  to  be  able  to  get  away  from  the 


28  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM' ' 

smell  of  a  French  town  which,  by  the  way,  is  some 
smell. 

The  French  girls  are  well  dressed ;  that  is,  they  know 
how  to  dress  so  they  make  the  most  of  their  charms. 
But  they  are  not  clean,  physically,  mentally  or  morally, 
and  have  absolutely  no  false  modesty  of  any  kind  so  far 
as  I  can  see.  Give  me  the  English  girl,  with  her  high 
complexion  and  the  sensible  skirt  and  shoes  that  allow 
her  to  swing  along  at  a  good  fast  walk.  God  knows  they 
are  not  pretty,  even  with  their  wonderful  complexions, 
but  they  are  good,  clean,  wholesome,  sound  and  sensible. 
I  had  rather  an  indifferent  opinion  of  England  before 
this  trip,  but  I  retract  everything  I  ever  said,  and  I  am 
one  grand  little  booster  for  that  little  island  from  now 
on.  Of  course  we  have  not  seen  any  of  the  better  class 
French  people,  and  I  suppose  they  "are  most  remark- 
able, like  you  and  I,"  but  my  impressions  of  those  I  have 
seen  stand  as  written.  They  are  only  my  private  opin- 
ions, but  if  I  were  President  or  King  of  this  country  I'd 
sell  a  billion  bonds  and  put  sewers  in  every  town,  and 
I'd  lock  all  the  unmarried  women  up  in  a  big  cage  and 
only  let  them  out  after  a  marriage  ceremony  had  been 
performed  through  the  bars. 

The  country  is  remarkably  like  the  valleys  of  the 
coast  range  of  California  in  appearance  and  climate; 
but  let  the  comparison  stop  right  there.  Carry  it  no 
further  or  you  will  be  incurring  my  serious  hatred  for 
circulating  insidious  propaganda.  For  the  villages  are 
vile,  old  and  crummy,  and  smell  like  "Stinkum  Turn," 
on  the  road  to  Redwood;  I  mean  the  fertilizing  plant 
with  the  big  pig  sty  next  door.  And  the  whole  country 
simply  swarms  with  kids  whose  sole  knowledge  of 
English  is  "penny,"  or  "souvenir,"  and  they  certainly 
do  pester  you  by  keeping  right  by  your  heels.  If  you 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  29 

give  them  a  penny  they  take  it  in  silence  and  are  after 
you  again. 

Very  nearly  half  of  the  women  are  wearing  black 
with  the  veils  flowing  all  over  them.  I  do  not  like  this 
custom  at  all.  If  a  man  dies  in  this  fight  for  right  and 
the  freedom  of  his  country  he  has  simply  done  his  bit, 
and  even  if  one  sorrows  there  is  no  need  of  advertising 
the  fact;  for  black  is  a  continual  reminder  to  you  and 
your  friends  of  your  bereavement.  If  it  is  a  real  sorrow 
you  need  nothing  to  remind  you  of  it,  and  the  sooner 
you  forget  the  sorrow  of  it  and  remember  only  the  glory 
of  it,  the  happier  will  be  the  one  who  has  gone.  For,  if  he 
loved  you  he  desired  your  happiness  above  all  else. 
Thems  my  sentiments. 

In  England  you  were  unable  to  get  food  without  a 
ticket,  and  all  sales  were  restricted;  but  for  the  things 
that  you  could  get  you  were  only  charged  a  very  nom- 
inal price,  while  here  in  France  everything  is  ace  high. 
So  save  your  sugar,  for  that  seems  to  be  one  of  the 
scarcest  things  over  here.  We  can  get  no  candy  of  any 
sort  except  plain  chocolate  which  is  of  poor  quality,  and 
very  dear.  But  since  we  can  get  beer  and  pale  ale  in 
small  quantities,  the  craving  for  sweets  is  not  so  intense. 
I  never  did  like  Bass's  Ale,  but  I'm  certainly  taking  it 
every  chance  I  get  now.  Tobacco  is  cheap  and  plentiful, 
and,  while  in  England  we  couldn't  get  any  real  cig- 
arettes, here  in  France  near  the  American  posts  you  can 
get  P.  A.  and  Tuxedo,  Camels  and  Durham  as  cheap,  if 
not  cheaper  than  in  the  States. 

School  starts  Monday  and  until  then  I'm  going  to 
rest  up  and  take  it  as  easy  as  possible.  Only  having  to 
wear  our  blouses  and  Sam  Brown  belts  all  the  time,  and 
the  temperature  about  the  same  as  Kenwood  on  the 
Fourth  of  July  does  not  make  for  comfort.  However,  I 


30  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

guess  these  warm  woolens  will  come  in  handy  a  little 
later,  as  I  understand  it  gets  some  cold  here  in  winter. 

Well,  kind  people  all,  adieu  for  this  time,  and  I'll 
write  again  soon.  My  address,  when  you  answer  this, 
will  be 

Lieut.  EMMET  N.  BRITTON, 

Hdq.  Co.,  36 3d  Infantry, 
American  Expeditionary  Forces, 
via  New  York. 

Arthur  sends  his  very  best  to  you  all,  also  Frank 
Postelwaithe.  Lots  of  love  to  all  of  you, 

MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  31 

CHAPTER  IV 

IN  FRANCE 

LA  BELLE  FRANCE, 
SUNDAY,  JULY  28,  1918. 

DEAR  PEOPLE  ALL — 

SUNNY  Belle  France!  And  it  has  been  cold  and 
rainy  for  the  past  week,  and  in  the  middle  of 
summer !  God  help  us  in  January !  The  one  bright  spot 
is  the  radio  reports  of  "Germans  in  full  retreat  on 
the  Soissons-Chateau-Thierry-Reims  sector  with  the 
French- American  forces  in  hot  pursuit."  A  cold  gray 
day  and  down  in  the  "Y"  hut — I  am  in  the  library — 
some  cheerful  idiot  has  just  finished  playing  Cavalieria 
Rusticana,  and  now  is  starting  in  with  Humoresque. 
I  leave  it  to  any  of  you  if  that  isn't  a  cheerful  prelude  to 
a  letter  you  are  writing  to  the  home  folks,  and  when  all 
who  are  dear  to  you  are  eight  thousand  miles  away! 
But,  as  the  French  say,  "Cest  la  guerre,"  or  words  to 
that  effect,  whenever  anything  is  not  what  it  ought  to 

be,  or  things  go  generally  wrong.   (The fool  is  now 

playing  Melody  in  F.    He  is  going  to  be  possessed  of  a 
wrung  neck  if  he  isn't  more  careful.) 

I  believe  the  last  time  I  wrote  I  was  mildly  (?)  dis- 
gusted with  French  people  and  manners  in  general. 
I  guess  I  am  getting  accustomed  to  the  sights  and  smells 
for  they  don't  bother  me  nearly  as  much  as  they  did. 
The  little  village  down  the  hill  from  here  is  under  control 
of  highly  efficient  American  M.  P.s  who  maintain  a 
higher  or  greater  cleanliness,  both  moral  and  physical, 
than  the  simple  village  people  had  ever  before  heard  of, 
let  alone  seen.  So is  really  not  so  bad  as  the  large 


32  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

towns,  which,  however,  is  not  saying  so  very  much  for 
it.  If  the  people  here  could  ever  see  the  possibilities 
of  a  clean  town  its  own  size,  say  St.  Helena,  they 
would  think  it  heaven  itself. 

A  little  river  runs  through  the  center  of  the  town  and 
furnishes  water  for  the  town  as  well  as  a  means  of  dis- 
posal of  refuse.  Between  these  two  points  is  the  washing 
place,  and  believe  me,  I'll  never  again  kick  at  an  Amer- 
ican laundry.  The  French  laundries  at  home  are  pretty 
swell  affairs,  but  over  here — O  Lord ! — all  of  your  dirty 
clothes  are  put  in  a  bag  which  is  thrown  into  the  river 
with  a  rock  tied  on  it  and  the  clothes  allowed  to  soak  all 
night.  Early  the  next  morning,  after  Madame  has 
fortified  herself  with  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  jug  of  "vin 
ordinair,"  she  wades  out  mid-stream,  chases  the  ducks 
off  the  laundry  bag  and  hauls  it  all  out  on  a  big  flat  rock. 
Then  comes  the  fun.  A  big  wooden  paddle,  a  little 
smaller  than  a  row-boat  oar,  makes  a  mysterious  appear- 
ance, and  piece  at  a  time  your  laundry  is  subjected  to  a 
thorough  beating  while  Madame  chatters  away  in 
voluble  French,  discussing  the  village  gossip  with 
another  old  dame  on  the  opposite  bank.  The  dirtiest 
pieces  of  clothing,  as  with  the  chatter,  are  left  until  last. 
By  then  Madame  has  a  good  sweat  worked  up  and  is 
real  angry  at  someone — and  oh,  how  she  lays  on  the 
paddle!  In  the  meanwhile  her  fourteen  children  are 
playing  all  around  her,  and  every  once  in  a  while  when 
Jacques  gets  hold  of  the  duck  tail  or  something  else  she 
lets  drive  at  him  with  the  paddle,  probably  knocking 
him  into  the  water  and  telling  him  to  stay  in  a  while  and 
get  his  clothes  clean.  If  the  collar  of  a  shirt  is  real  dirty 
the  rock  is  used  as  a  scrubbing  board  until  the  dirt  comes 
off  or  the  fabric  wears  through.  Then  Madame  lays  all 
the  clothes  on  her  bed,  lies  on  them  and  takes  a  nap  after 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  33 

her  strenuous  exertions,  and  folding  them  up  after  her 
nap  sends  them  back  to  you  and  charges  you  two  prices 
for  washing  and  ironing.  If  I  have  to  stay  here  more 
than  a  year  and  a  half  I'll  be  wiring  for  a  whole  new 
outfit,  for  I  can  easily  see  its  finish  with  these  "rough 
dry  French  laundries." 

Last  night  being  Saturday  night,  Frank  Postle- 
waithe,  Art  Erb  and  I  wandered  down  to  the  village 
and  had  a  wild  carousal,  drinking  a  quart  of  beer  apiece 
and  staggering  home  under  the  load.  It  was  the  first  we 
had  had  for  a  week,  for  we  have  been  so  blamed  busy 
studying  we  have  not  had  the  time  to  go  even  for  a  five 
minutes'  walk  to  get  the  stuff.  It  is  certainly  virulent 
stuff,  so  much  so  that  a  drink  of  Bevo  would  taste  like 
beer  alongside  of  it,  and  Budweiser  would  seem  like 
waterfront  whiskey. 

A  scene  at  the  Post  Office : 

ANXIOUS  EMMY — "Got  any  mail  for  Lieut.  Britton?" 
P.  O.  ORDERLY — "Nope — how  long  have  you  been  here?" 
ANXIOUS  EMMY — "About  two  weeks." 
P.  O.  ORDERLY — "What  are  you  doing?  Trying  to  kid  me? 
ANXIOUS  EMMY — (Indignantly)  "Certainly  not." 
P.  O.  ORDERLY — "You  won't  get  any  mail  until  you  rejoin 
your  outfit,  three  weeks  from  now." 

A.  E.  rushes  madly  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  tries  to 
drown  his  sorrows  in  a  cup  of  chocolate,  but  the  cheerful 
idiot  is  playing  Traumeri  and  A.  E.  rushes  madly  out 
into  the  storm  and  tries  to  play  King  Lear.  A  gas  attack 
is  launched,  and  A.  E.  rushes  hastily  to  his  barracks  one 
jump  ahead  of  the  gas  wave,  remembering  the  sign  in 
the  gas-house,  "In  a  gas  attack  there  are  two  kinds  of 
men,  the  quick  and  the  dead;  don't  be  a  dead  one." 
"It's  all  right  to  cook  with  gas,  but  who  in  hell  wants  to 
croak  with  it?" 

The  work  at  school  is  going  fine  and  we  are  getting  a 


34  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

lot  of  practical  data  that  we  could  not  get  elsewhere  and 
which,  after  all,  is  the  only  stuff  that  helps  when  you  are 
up  in  front  and  pull  off  a  show.  And  right  here  and  now 
I  want  to  say  that  the  bunch  of  officers  here  from  the 
Signal  Corps,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  could  go  to 
Ward  D  of  the  Eldridge  Feeble  Minded  Home,  and  in 
forty  minutes  the  doctor  would  have  them  signed  up  for 
life  as  incurables.  If  these  men  are  representative 
samples  of  the  rest  of  that  branch  may  God  have  mercy 
on  the  lines  of  communication.  I  don't  see  how  they 
are  kept  up  as  well  as  they  are.  It  is  probably  due  to  the 
Infantry  men  who  are  doing  their  work  for  them. 
Pardon  the  bilious  attack,  but  I  have  just  had  to  move 
into  a  barracks  with  a  lot  of  them,  and  it  is  just  like 
pitching  your  tent  in  a  monkey  cage.  After  five  minutes 
I  told  them  all  to  go  to  h — 1  and  walked  out  hearing  one 
of  them  say,  "He  must  be  one  of  those  rough  persons 
from  that  Western  camp."  I  turned  around  and  told 
him  he  was  "  -  right."  Since  then  three  other 

doughboys  from  our  division  have  joined  me  in  misery 
and  we  are  down  in  one  corner,  and  the  rest  of  the 
barracks  have  declared  an  armistice,  but  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  us — which  just  suits  us,  as  they  are 
all  from  the  Eastern  States  and  don't  talk  our  talk.  If 
one  of  those  boys  ever  stood  on  the  corner  of  Market 
and  Powell  some  one  would  either  kiss  it  or  kill  it. 

Well,  people,  it  isn't  such  a  bad  little  war,  only  I'd 
give  a  lot  for  the  magic  carpet  so  I  could  spend  my 
week-ends  with  you  all,  for  Sunday  is  one  lonesome  little 
day  and  since  you  write  letters  which  have  to  go  so 
far  it  makes  it  all  the  more  so.  So  it's  love  and  kisses  all 
around  to  the  ladies,  and  a  good  hand  shake  to  all  the 
he  members,  and  "bon  voyage"  to  the  letter. 

Ever  and  always — Just — MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  35 

CHAPTER  V 

REFLECTIONS 

SUNDAY,  AUGUST  8,  1918. 
DEAR  DAD  AND  MOTHER  MINE — 

JUST  a  wee  note  with  no  news  in  it  to  tell  you  both 
I  am  warm,  dry,  and  in  good  health,  and  as  happy 
as  could  be  expected  under  existing  circumstances. 
Any  news  is  in  a  general  letter  sent  to  Becky  to  be 
forwarded  around  the  circuit.  I  feel,  though,  that  there 
should  be  just  a  personal  touch  in  our  letters  that  can't 
be  put  into  a  general  letter. 

Somehow  it  always  seems  as  though  I  should  be 
thanking  you  two  for  something ;  either  for  some  worldly 
goods  you  have  given  me,  or  for  some  fine  thing  done 
for  me  or  mine,  some  act  of  love  and  kindness  that 
means  much  to  me.  Right  now  I  want  to  thank  you  two 
for  having  brought  me  into  the  world,  for  having 
brought  me  up  to  respect  womanhood,  to  loathe  a 
coward,  and  to  believe  myself  as  good  as  any  man  but 
no  better  than  my  poorer  neighbor.  I  have  lived  a 
glorious  life — thanks  to  you — and  have  had  a  wonder- 
fully happy  time  of  it,  and  I  have  been  loved  by  a 
wonderful  girl  who  has  made  me  happier  than  I  ever 
believed  it  possible  to  be,  and  I  have  been  blessed  with 
two  bright,  healthy  and  perfect  kiddies.  All  of  this  is 
due  to  you  two.  You  have  brought  up  a  big  family  and 
they  have  all  deserted  you,  married,  and  are  bringing 
up,  or  trying  to  bring  up,  families  of  their  own.  If  I  am 
the  first  to  thank  you  for  bringing  me  into  the  world  and 
raising  me  the  others  should  be  ashamed;  if  I  am  the 
last,  I  am  sorry,  for  while  I  have  often  thought  it  I  never 
could  seem  to  get  around  to  say  it. 


36  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

Now  I  want  to  say  something.  If  I  come  back  after 
this  fuss  is  over  the  same  as  I  am  now  in  body  and  mind 
I  am  not  going  back  to  the  farm,  but  I'm  going  to  jump 
into  the  game  of  business  to  either  do  or  be  done.  If  I 
don't  make  good  if  won't  be  because  I  have  not  tried. 
If  I  come  back  banged  up  a  bit  then  I  will  retire  to  some 
sheltered  spot  and  try  to  raise  better  prunes  than  my 
neighbor  and  run  for  president  of  the  local  farmers' 
association.  My  good  wife  will  give  me  her  entire  sup- 
port whichever  way  it  goes,  and  God  knows  I  need  her 
support,  more,  perhaps,  than  she  realizes. 

Father  and  mother  of  mine,  your  youngest  son  is 
trying  to  do  his  duty  as  he  sees  it,  though  it  isn't  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  do,  for  his  heart  is  there  in 
the  States ;  but  come  what  may  I  want  both  of  you  to 
know  that  for  the  life  you  have  given  me  I  will  always 
thank  you. 

Only 

THE  KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  37 

CHAPTER  VI 

SUNDAY  MORNINGS 

SUNDAY,  AUGUST  8,  1918. 
DEAR  KIND  PEOPLE  ALL: 

AGAIN  the  blessed  Sabbath  hath  rolled  around, 
bringing  with  it  its  usual  gloomy,  rainy  weather. 
I  sure  feel  I  am  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  from  the 
States  all  right,  for  over  there  it  may  rain  and  storm  all 
week  but  will  clear  up  for  Sunday  so  all  hands  can  doll 
up  and  troop  to  church  (and  believe  me,  I'd  sure  like  to 
see  such  a  procession  again)  while  over  here  the  very 
opposite  holds  true.  The  one  day  we  have  any  time  to 
think  of  home  folks  at  any  great  length,  the  sky  has  to 
be  overcast  and  the  footing  perilous,  and  consequently 
our  thoughts  are  overcast,  and  the  footing  is  like  that 
on  the  Via  Dolorosa.  I'd  like  to  see  a  Sunday  such  as 
we  have  at  home  in  May  once  more,  and  probably  I  'd  be 
so  darn  homesick  that  I  would  welcome  these  rainy  ones, 
since  they  give  us  a  chance  to  grouse  and  so  forget  part 
of  our  real  trouble. 

Just  a  word  about  the  work  here,  and  then  we  will 
consider  it  tabooed.  We  had  our  first  examination  Mon- 
day, and  your  little  son  and  kid  brother  pulled  down 
one  hundred,  and  on  a  note  book  handed  in  at  the  same 
time  ninety-five.  Tomorrow  comes  the  second  exam 
and  we  will  be  half  way  through  the  course,  but  I  am 
not  nearly  as  confident  as  I  was  before.  However,  we 
will  do  our  darndest  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Yesterday  during  buzzer  practice  the  sergeant  was 
sending  stuff  out  of  the  newspaper,  as  is  his  custom,  and 
sent  the  word  "California,"  which  caused  little  Emy  to 


38  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

get  so  darned  excited  that  he  missed  the  rest  of  the 
sentence,  and  forgot  discipline  and  dignity  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  gave  a  wild  cheer  in  which  he  was  joined 
by  his  own  two  sergeants,  O'Brien  and  Trusty.  Being 
properly  repulsed,  we  subsided,  but  exchanged  a  few 
grins,  for  we  felt  that  we  had  upheld  the  reputation  of 
the  West,  as  we  are  considered  barbarians. 

Last  night  Little  Playmate  (Art  Erb),  Sunshine 
(Frank  Postlethwaithe)  and  I  again  gathered  ourselves 
together  in  a  quiet  little  inn  in  the  village,  and  spent  a 
few  hours  in  profitable  discussion,  touching  lightly  upon 
the  proper  way  to  conduct  this  war  so  as  to  bring  it  to  a 
speedy  end.  As  a  result  we  had  to  pay  Madame  a  few 
extra  francs  as  the  red  and  white  table  cover  was  well 
marked  up  with  diagrams  drawn  with  burnt  matches. 
I  'm  sure  if  General  John  knew  we  were  in  the  army  each 
of  us  would  hold  a  staff  position  as  orderly  or  hostler  or 
some  other  high  office.  We  finally  agreed  though,  that 
rather  than  have  any  dissension  we  would  do  as  we  were 
told,  and  if  we  weren't  home  by  a  year  from  Christmas 
we  could  blame  somebody  else. 

I  very  nearly  bought  a  couple  of  postal  cards  down 
in  the  village  last  night  for  Jack,  but  I  was  afraid  that 
they  wouldn't  get  by  the  censor — he  would  take  them 
for  his  own  personal  use,  but  fear  not,  Jawn — I'll  bring 
back  a  couple  in  the  tray  of  my  trunk.  I  have  wanted 
to  buy  some  little  thing  for  each  of  you,  but  the  village 
is  so  small  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  very  much  worth 
while,  but  when  we  move  nearer  to  one  of  the  large  cities 
I  will  see  if  I  can't  find  something  that  is  distinctly 
French. 

Down  at  the  "Y"  they  are  having  morning  services 
and  are  singing  some  of  the  old  favorite  hymns.  It  has 
brought  to  my  mind  one  Sunday  morning  when  I  was 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  39 

going  to  training  camp  and  Dad  and  Becky  and  I  had 
a  little  song  fest  all  our  own  in  the  big  living-room  at 
Redwood.  I  can  see  the  big  room  now  just  as  it  was  then 
with  the  piano  in  the  northeast  corner  and  a  fire  snap- 
ping away  in  the  fire  place,  with  the  colored  supplements 
of  the  Chronicle  and  Examiner  scattered  on  that  over- 
stuffed davenport.  They  don't  have  funny  papers  over 
here,  and  I  guess  they  think  that  they  are  relics  of  a 
barbaric  age. 

The  more  I  see  of  this  country  the  better  American 
I  become,  and  from  now  on  I  am  a  confirmed  disciple  of 
the  "See  America  First"  doctrine,  although  I  will  say 
that  England  can  show  us  a  few  things  when  it  comes  to 
neatness.  When  we  are  as  old  as  England,  which 
reminds  me  of  one  of  the  old  maiden  ladies  of  the  Mid- 
Victorian  period  with  a  white  cap  on  her  head  and 
white  collar  and  cuffs,  we  will  probably  be  just  as  neat, 
though  in  a  more  informal  way. 

Think  of  me  once  in  a  while,  people,  for  it  gets  pretty 
lonesome  being  here  all  alone,  and  it's  kind  of  nice  to 
feel  that  the  people  at  home  are  giving  you  a  good 
thought  once  or  twice  a  day.  So  here's  a  cheerio  and 
good  luck  to  all. 

THE  KID. 


40  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  VII 

ANTICIPATION 

A  SUNNY  SUNDAY  IN  FRANCE  !  !  ! 
FRANCE,  AUGUST  20,  1918. 
HELLO  PEOPLE: 

HERE  I  have  been  crabbing  my  poor  fool  head  off 
every  letter  and  grousing  about  the  bum  Sun- 
days in  France.  We  are  now  at  the  close  of  as  perfect  a 
day  as  California  ever  produced.  But  (to  continue  to 
grouse)  I  wrote  up  notes  all  day,  and  the  poor  old  mit  of 
Mitt  is  all  gnarled  and  cramped.  (Of  course  I  wrote 
Becky.) 

One  week  more  of  this  institution  and  I'll  be  turned 
loose  upon  the  outfit  again,  and  it  is  going  to  seem  darn 
good  to  see  all  the  boys  again.  Almost  like  a  touch  of 
home.  Fell  down  in  the  exam  this  week  and  only  pulled 
down  ninety-eight.  I'll  try  to  do  better  tomorrow,  but 
as  I  have  to  take  part  in  a  track  meet  tomorrow  morn- 
ing before  the  exam  I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  in  very  good 
shape.  Here's  hoping,  though.  After  all  this  isn't  such 
a  bad  little  war,  for  if  you  all  were  closer  you  couldn't 
have  filet  mignon  unless  you  cut  it  out  of  a  can  of  bully 
beef  and  once  a  week  you  have  a  feast,  sweet  potatoes 
fresh  from  the  can.  Lots  of  eggs,  though,  so  you  needn't 
draw  any  picture  of  me  starving  to  death  with  a  three- 
egg  omelet  selling  for  one  franc  fifty,  in  case  the  tummie 
rebels  at  bully.  The  only  thing  that  bothers  me  is  that 
you  people  eat  corned  beef  when  you  can  get  veal,  lamb 
and  mutton.  Last  night  I  dreamed  of  a  big  T  bone  steak 
smothered  in  onions  with  lots  of  French  fried  potatoes 
on  the  side.  So  everyone  of  you,  when  you  eat  a  steak 
after  this,  think  of  me  the  first  bite  or  two,  and  if  you 


EMMET  N.    BRITTON,  JR. 


PATRICIA  ALICE  BRITTON 

BECKY  BRITTON 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  41 

get  some  spaghetti  financiere — oh,  don't  mind  me — I 
had  a  rotten  dinner  tonight. 

It  is  a  big  he-night  tonight,  and  I'd  sure  love  to  be 
"Somewhere  in  California"  in  a  machine  with  my  lady 
fair,  headed  toward  you  all  for  a  big  re-union  feed. 
(There  I  go  talking  about  food  again — don't  mind. 
I'll  buy  a  bar  of  "chocolat  au  lait"  at  the  "Y"  and 
forget  it.) 

Nothing  of  interest  happened  on  the  front  today. 
But  there  will  be  "hell  poppin"  this  week,  for  we  have  a 
couple  of  big  maneuvers  on,  to  say  nothing  of  final 
exams  and  packing  up. 

Calamity — officers'  baggage  will  be  limited  to  fifty 
pounds  besides  what  he  carries.  From  now  on  I  resemble 
the  patient  little  long  eared  canary  of  the  southwestern 
plains. 

This  is  a  helluva  letter — I'm  too  nervous — possibly 

an  air  raid  coming  tonight.  If  so  I'll  d n  Fritz  good 

and  proper,  as  I  need  the  rest. 

Love  to  all  of  you — and  forgive 

IGNATZ — THE  NUT. 

Alias  MITT. 


42  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  VIII 

READY  FOR  THE  FRAY 

AUGUST  10,  1918. 
DEAR  DAD  AND  MOTHER  MINE — 

JUST  a  note  to  tell  you  all  is  O.  K.  I  am  back  with 
my  outfit  after  finishing  school  with  a  final  average 
of  ninety-six-ninety-nine  in  my  exams. 

Seems  good  to  be  back  with  all  the  lads  again,  though 
the  whole  regiment  is  scattered  throughout  six  villages. 
We  are  working  night  and  day,  and  the  front  lines  seem 
like  a  vacation  when  we  get  there. 

Billeted  in  a  French  home  and  have  a  hard  time 
making  my  wants  known,  but  I  'm  getting  to  be  a  darn 
good  actor  though  my  French  vocabulary  has  not 
increased  very  much. 

Fine  old  family.  I  have  the  bridal  suite,  and  sleep 
in  a  bed  that  is  six  feet  from  the  floor  and  has  a  red 
canopy  over  it.  Feel  like  Cleopatra  or  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  when  I  vault  into  bed. 

Weather  hashy,  a  little  of  everything.  No  mail  yet ; 
I  guess  it's  trailing  all  over  France  trying  to  catch  up 
with  me,  for,  believe  me,  I  have  done  some  travelling. 

Have  no  idea  when  we  will  move  up  into  the  front 
row  or  orchestra  seats.  Wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  did  know 
(or  could  tell  you)  for  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  get  excited 
in  case  the  boat  carrying  my  following  letter  should  be 
sunk. 

Tis  late  at  night,  and  as  I  have  three  men  and  a 
small  boy's  work  to  do  tomorrow  I'll  say  "Bon  soir,  old 
dears,"  "cheerio,"  "carry  on,"  and  all  the  rest  of  that 
bally  rot. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  43 

Anyway,  people,  they  can't  hurt  the  Irish,  so  God 
bless  you  both  and  drop  a  line  occasionally  to — 

THE  KID. 


44  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  IX 

PREPAREDNESS 

IN  THE  FIELD, 

SUNDAY,  SEPTEMBER  8,  1918. 
DEAR  PEOPLE: 

T JERE  we  are  on  the  go  far  from  our  comfortable 

"~J_  billets  and  roughing  it  in  the  wilds  of  France. 
Where  we  are  going  no  one  knows,  but  we  can  all  hazard 
one  wild  guess. 

At  present  I  am  lying  on  my  tummie  in  a  puppie 
tent,  trying  to  keep  up  the  old  pep,  while  outside  old 
Boreas  himself  is  tearing  around  sprinkling  aqua  pura 
all  around.  So  far  sunny  Francy  has  done  little  but 
weep,  possibly  for  her  own  deplorable  condition. 

We  have  been  salvaging  equipment  every  step,  and 
each  time  we  move  on  our  packs  grow  lighter  and  our 
bedding  rolls  smaller.  I  left  the  States  with  about  four 
hundred  dollars'  worth  of  equipment — a  dollar  a  pound 
— while  now  I  am  down  to  my  bedding  roll,  and  besides 
the  clothes  I  have  on  all  I  have  with  me  in  the  line  of 
clothing  is  a  change  of  underwear  and  three  pair  of  sox. 
So  little  by  little  and  bit  by  bit  we  drop  bundles  along 
the  line.  I  expect  when  I  get  into  the  first  action  to  be 
clothed  in  a  pair  of  B.  V.  D.  pants,  a  bayonet  in  one 
hand  and  a  telephone  and  roll  of  wire  in  the  other. 
"On  to  Berlin." 

So  far  I  have  travelled  across  France  three  times, 
and  I  hope  that  the  next  time  I  head  back  toward  the 
Channel  it  will  be  toward  a  port  of  embarkation  for 
the  U.  S. 

We  all  feel  confident  that  there  will  be  no  let  up  in 
the  Allied  drives  even  through  the  winter,  and  when  the 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  45 

time  comes  for  Fritz's  usual  spring  drive  he  will  be  will- 
ing to  listen  to  our  peace  terms  instead  of  making  up 
some  damphule  ones  of  his  own. 

Dad,  your  letters  are  wonders,  and  it  sure  does  the 
Kid  a  lot  of  good  to  get  them,  for  they  boost  up  the 
morale  about  twenty  points  above  par.  If  every  man  in 
the  army  could  receive  such  letters  we  would  be  in 
Berlin  in  a  month.  I  have  received  your  letters  number 
one,  number  two,  number  three,  and  number  five. 
Number  four  seems  to  have  joined  up  with  the  Lusi- 
tania.  Letters  one,  two  and  three  having  been  salvaged 
I  cannot  answer  them  properly,  but  turning  to  the  first 
of  the  pencil  plied  epistles — number  five — I  perceive 
the  word  wasp  being  used  in  connection  with  one  Charlie 
Conlisk ;  reminds  me — I  have  often  wondered  why  the 
royal  arms  of  France  and  of  Napoleon  had  golden  bees 
on  them,  and  even  on  the  canopies  of  the  beds  and  the 
upholstering  of  the  furniture.  Now  I  know.  There  are 
more  wasps  here  than  there  are  square  inches  in  the 
whole  State  of  California.  The  sons-of-guns  are  tame 
and  we  simply  have  to  bat  and  brush  them  aside  like  one 
would  flies  when  trying  to  eat  a  piece  of  bread  and 
molasses  in  a  low-down  livery  stable. 

On  the  top  of  page  two  you  spoke  of  repetition  and 
drew  in  a  vamp — which  leads  me  to  say  that  I  have  yet 
to  see  some  real  French  babies.  I  have  read  a  lot  about 
these  French  vamps  on  music,  on  shoes  and  on  the 
boulevards,  but  I  repeat  that  someone's  tastes  were 
very,  very  poor.  I  have  seen  some  of  the  so  called 
beauties,  but  they  remind  me  of  a  broken  down, 
spavined  bunch  of  third  rate  chorus  girls  that  are  with 
a  burlesque  show  hitting  the  very  small  valley  towns, 
such  as  Oroville,  Red  Bluff  and  Colfax. 

I  envy  you  your  trip  to  the  Bohemian  Grove,  and 


46  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

I'd  like  to  try  that  late  bed  going,  late  rising  bar  sinister 
habit  for  about  a  brace  of  days.  To  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing and  take  a  bath  and  eat  some  eggs  and  drink  some 
coffee  would  be  my  idea  of  a  small  sized  piece  of  heaven. 
And  to  be  able  to  see  you  all  would  make  it  a  darn  sized 
bigger  chunk  of  heaven.  Of  course  you  realize  my 
Beckets  and  kiddies  are  in  on  that  too. 

Just  now  we  are  all  hidden  in  a  big  forest  of  pines  and 
the  sound  of  the  wind  heaving  sighs  through  their  tops 
makes  me  some  home-sick  for  the  old  Sierras. 

I  think  we  are  on  the  eve  of  a  big  battle  (St.  Mihiel) 
which  will  probably  be  history  when  you  receive  this, 
but,  Dad  and  Mother  mine,  I  want  you  to  know  that 
any  of  the  fine  things  you  have  said  about  me  I  consider 
as  compliments  to  you  both,  for  all  I  am,  hope,  pray  for 
and  hold  dear  is  due  to  you.  If  in  any  small  way  I  am 
to  be  complimented,  you  started  me,  so  take  the 
consequences. 

Vast  gobs  of  love  to  you —        From 

TUBBY. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  47 

CHAPTER  X 

THE  DAYS  BEFORE 

"SOMEWHERE," 
SEPTEMBER    15,    1918. 
DEAR  PEOPLE  ALL — 

SINCE  the  army  has  abolished  Sundays  I  don't  know 
just  when  I  wrote  to  you  last,  but  I  imagine  it  was 
some  time  ago.   We  keep  no  count  of  the  days,  as  most 
of  our  work  is  now  done  at  nights. 

I  believe  the  last  time  I  wrote  we  were  camped  in  a 
small  wood  hiding  ourselves,  and  being  continually 
rained  on.  I  believe  Cherubim  and  Seraphim  must  have 
occupied  the  sector  of  heavens  directly  above  us,  and 
they  "continually  did  cry."  (Apologies  to  the  author 
Diddy,  Dump  and  Tot.)  Try  to  imagine  the  scene.  A 
regiment  of  infantry  (some  three  thousand  men)  camped 
in  a  sparse  wood  which  covered  about  twenty  acres,  all 
in  pup  tents.  A  cold  wind  driving  in  from  the  south- 
west, throwing  the  wind  in  sheets  against  the  meagre 
shelter  of  the  men.  Dusk,  that  hour  of  the  day  when 
one's  vitality  is  lowest  and  the  most  appealing  thing  in 
the  world  is  a  hot  meal  and  a  warm  dry  bed.  The  scene 
is  laid;  picture  it  if  you  can.  Suddenly  a  motorcycle 
courier  comes  along  the  road  at  forty  miles  an  hour  and 
jumps  off  opposite  the  C.  O.'s  tent.  Then  officers  call, 
the  order  of  march  is  published,  then  strike  tents.  To 
really  understand  the  difficulties  of  striking  tents  in  the 
rain  and  darkness  perhaps  I  had  better  do  a  little 
explaining.  Each  man  carries  one-half  of  a  shelter  tent, 
one  pole  and  five  pins.  This  shelter  half  is  a  piece  of 
canvas  six  feet  by  four  feet,  and  forms  the  outside  of  the 
roll  a  man  carries.  To  make  up  a  roll  the  shelter  half  is 


48  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

spread  on  the  ground,  the  one  blanket  is  laid  on  it  and 
inside  of  the  blanket  are  placed  the  poles  and  pins,  the 
one  suit  of  underwear,  and  three  pairs  of  sox,  which 
make  up  all  of  a  man's  outfit  with  the  exception  of  the 
toilet  articles  which  include  one  comb,  one  tooth  brush, 
one  piece  of  soap,  one  razor  and  one  shaving  brush.  Add 
to  that  one  can  of  bully  beef  and  eight  pieces  of  hard- 
tack and  you  have  the  contents  of  a  man's  pack. 

Now,  a  piece  of  canvas  is  a  darn  hard  thing  to  handle 
when  it  is  windy,  so  on  a  rainy  day  when  there  is  a  wind 
it  is  no  fun  making  up  a  roll,  for  as  soon  as  you  strike 
tents  all  of  your  stuff  starts  to  get  wet  and  your  shelter 
half  will  not  lie  flat.  But  strike  tents  we  did,  then  the 
assemble,  "forward  march,"  and  in  twenty  minutes  the 
column  of  men  over  a  mile  and  a  half  long  followed  by 
the  wagon  trains  were  splashing  along  the  dark  muddy 
road,  the  silence  unbroken  save  for  the  clump,  clump  of 
the  hob-nailed  boots.  And  so  on  through  all  the  long 
dark  wet  night.  We  passed  through  towns  and  villages, 
cities  and  countryside,  over  rivers  and  across  railroad 
tracks,  but  pushing  relentlessly  on.  When  the  light  in 
the  east  was  just  becoming  apparent  and  one  could 
begin  to  make  out  the  figures  of  the  men  in  front  of 
you  and  they  began  to  assume  definite  form  instead  of 
darker  blotches  in  a  dark  surrounding  element  we 
pulled  into  a  fair  sized  town,  once  prosperous,  but 
now  partly  in  ruins.  The  men  were  stowed  away  into 
barns  and  lofts  full  of  soft  sweet-smelling  hay,  to  hide 
away  and  sleep  off  the  effect  of  the  night's  work  as  only 
a  tired  soldier  can  sleep,  forgetful  of  rats,  spiders  and 
even  "cooties,"  though  in  that  respect  we  have  so  far 
been  very  lucky. 

Our  stay  in  that  town  was  not  a  long  one,  for  the 
next  afternoon  out  of  a  clear  sky  we  picked  up  and  left 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  49 

under  more  advantageous  conditions.  After  a  walk  of  a 
few  miles  we  hopped  into  motor  lorries  and  started. 
The  booming  of  the  big  guns  was  very  close,  and  their 
regular  flashes  reminded  me  of  the  old  flashlight  on 
Alcatraz  Island.  But  as  the  trucks,  and  there  were  over 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  in  one  string,  went  on, 
the  rumble  died  down,  and  at  dawn  we  landed  in 
another  town  several  miles  away  from  where  we  started. 

And  here  we  are. 

Today  was  a  regular  letter  orgy,  as  I  received  two 
letters  from  Becky,  number  four  from  Dad  from 
Bohemia,  number  two  from  Ed,  number  four  from 
Boonie,  number  two  from  Sid,  one  from  my  "god- 
mother" in  New  York,  and  one  from  Paul  Smith.  So 
you  can  just  picture  me  revelling  in  mail. 

Gosh,  how  good  it  does  seem  to  get  mail  from  home. 
A  perfectly  wonderful  feeling,  and  you  sure  are  one 
hundred  per  cent  more  use  to  Uncle  Sam  after  getting 
a  batch  of  mail  than  you  were  before.  I  wish  I  could 
answer  all  your  letters  one  by  one  as  they  deserve,  but 
there  simply  is  not  time.  So  all  of  you  please  keep  on 
writing  and  when  you  read  those  family  letters  just 
imagine  the  envelope  was  addressed  to  you.  I'd  love  to 
keep  on  writing  every  day,  but  just  now  it  can't  be  did. 
Some  day,  however,  I'll  have  the  time,  and  each  of  you 
will  get  a  real  long  letter  from  me. 

No  fighting  for  us  yet,  but  we  are  "rearing  to  go," 
and  when  we  do  you  will  know  of  it.  God  bless  you  all, 
and  believe  me,  the  Kid  thinks  of  all  of  you  and  your 
kindnesses  to  him  and  his  every  day. 

I  am  still — just 

THE  KID. 


50  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XI 

ANTICIPATIONS 

IN  A  DUGOUT 
SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE, 
SEPTEMBER  23,  1918. 

DEAR  DAD  AND  PEOPLE  ALL — 

NOT  being  a  systematic  cuss  like  unto  thee,  I  realize 
that  long  since  I  have  ceased  numbering  my  let- 
ters, but  in  this  hurly-burly  life  we  lead  system  is  im- 
possible. Having  covered  a  greater  part  of  France  via 
shanks'  mare  and  the  Hob-Nail  Route  we  have  lost 
everything  except  our  gas  masks,  tin  hats,  shooting 
paraphernalia,  smiles  and  hate  of  the  Hun,  so  diaries 
and  like  impedimenta  are  gracing  some  gutter  of 
France.  So  please  forgive. 

You  have  asked  me  for  my  opinion  of  the  Y.  M.  C. 
A.,  Salvation  Army,  K.  of  C.  and  Red  Cross  and  the 
work  they  are  doing  over  here.  I  will  take  them  up  in 
that  order  for  that  would  be  the  way  I  would  rank  them, 
according  to  what  I  have  seen  so  far.  Remember,  please, 
that  in  this  I  have  not  had  a  chance  to  scout  around, 
but  have  had  to  take  things  as  they  come. 

The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  doing  great  work.  In  all  of  the 
permanent  camps  they  have  huts  in  which  there  is  a 
good  canteen  where  men  may  purchase  certain  luxuries 
at  rock-bottom  prices;  there  also  the  men  can  find  heat, 
magazines  and  books,  and  about  four  times  a  week 
either  movies  or  entertainment.  When  an  outfit  moves 
into  the  field  one  of  the  secretaries  goes  along  and  about 
once  a  week  gets  in  a  supply  of  cigars,  cigarettes,  cook- 
ies and  goodies  which  he  distributes  pro  rata  among  the 
men  and  officers.  Also  they  have  an  ideal  way  of  send- 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  51 

ing  money  home  for  the  boys,  which  is  like  the  Coast 
Artillery,  "safe  and  sound." 

The  Salvation  Army  also  has  huts  in  the  principal 
camps  where  the  lassies  keep  up  the  boys'  morals  with 
apple  pies,  doughnuts,  coffee  and  prayer  meetings,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  delight  of  speaking  English  to  a 
"female  of  the  species." 

Of  the  K.  of  C.  work  I  have  seen  little  except  the 
distribution  of  paper  and  envelopes,  which  work  is  also 
done  by  the  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  Salvation 
Army. 

The  Red  Cross  has  attached  to  each  division  a  work- 
ing force  which  is  designed  to  take  care  of  the  men's 
worries  and  troubles  at  home,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it  is 
not  advertised  enough,  for  I  only  found  out  about  it  the 
other  day  myself,  and  I  have  been  advising  my  men  to 
use  it  ever  since,  which  I  hope  they  are  doing. 

You  tell  me  that  as  a  fighter  I  must  take  off  my  hat 
to  the  brave  fighters  of  France.  Yes,  Dad,  you  are 
right — and  I  do — only,  if  they  had  spent  as  much  time 
fighting  on  the  front  on  which  we  are  now  located  as 
they  have  in  building  some  of  these  swell  dug-outs  (one 
of  which  I  am  now  in)  perhaps  this  part  of  the  line 
would  be  several  miles  nearer  the  German  border. 
When  you  see  dug-outs  made  of  pressed  brick  with 
feather  beds,  electric  lights,  open  fireplaces  and  hot- 
water  shower  baths  in  them  it  is  a  little  too  much  for 
the  impatient  Yankees.  These  people  are  war-worn  and 
weary  and  don't  want  to  fight  any  more  than  they  can 
help,  while  we  are  all  anxious  to  get  in  and  get  it  over 
with  so  we  can  get  back  home.  I  suppose  if  we  had  been 
slogging  along  in  this  misery  for  four  years  we  would  be 
fed  up  on  it  too.  But  they  are  blamed  good  fighters,  and  I 
hand  it  to  them.  In  looking  over  this  last  paragraph  I 


52  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

don't  know  that  it  would  pass  the  censor,  but  I'm  going 
to  take  a  chance.  Poor  old  Fritz  is  still  more  tired,  and 
most  of  the  prisoners  we  see  now  are  old  gray-beards 
and  mere  lads.  The  flower  of  the  German  army  has 
been  cut  down  and  Fritz  certainly  sees  the  handwriting 
on  the  wall. 

It  was  a  pitiful  thing  the  other  night  when  we  passed 
through  what  was  once  one  of  the  fairest  towns  in  France 
and  a  place  famous  in  history  and  fiction,  to  see  the 
desolation  wrought  by  the  Hun.  There  was  not  a  single 
building  left  and  the  ruins  reminded  me  of  San  Fran- 
cisco about  the  22d  of  April,  1906.  To  add  to  the  scene 
there  was  a  full  moon  rising  through  the  ruins  of  a  famous 
castle  while  the  black  clouds  scudding  across  the  face  of 
it  made  the  whole  thing  more  ghastly.  Fritz  did  his  bit 
by  sending  over  a  few  H.  E.  shells  while  we  were  march- 
ing, but  so  perfect  was  our  discipline  that  not  a  man 
lost  the  step  even  when  they  fell  in  too  close  for  comfort. 
Then  up  we  came  through  this  famous  old  forest,  which 
was  a  favorite  hunting  ground  of  the  old  French  mon- 
archs,  and  finally  found  ourselves  really  and  truly  "in 
it."  It  was  a  great  moment,  but  I  did  not  get  the  thrill 
out  of  it  that  I  expected  when  I  took  my  first  good  look 
at  "No  Man's  Land."  However,  I  fully  expect  to  get 
one  good  big  thrill  out  of  our  first  attack,  whenever 
that  takes  place. 

As  for  sending  me  stuff,  it  takes  an  order  signed  by 
a  colonel  or  better  to  get  a  package  sent.  However,  a 
large  envelope  will  get  by  as  first  class  mail  and  if  you 
can  figure  out  anything  that  can  come  that  way,  why 
send  it  along,  as  it  will  be  welcome.  You  all  have  been 
dandy  about  writing,  and  letters  are  certainly  a  god- 
send over  here.  Your  letters  number  six  and  number 
seven  on  hand,  and  letters  and  enclosures  thoroughly  en- 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  53 

joyed.  Two  dandy  letters  from  Mother  and  one  from 
Boone  with  the  pictures  in  it  of  her  kidlets.  A  letter 
from  Becky  with  pictures  of  my  babes  made  one  big 
lump  in  my  throat,  believe  me. 

Well,  peoples,  must  go  out  on  a  tour  of  inspection 
and  instruction  and  I  hope  that  when  the  next  chance 
of  letter- writing  comes  around  I'll  be  able  to  write  a 
more  interesting  letter  and  tell  of  some  front  line  experi- 
ences. Until  then  good  luck  and  keep  up  the  good  work. 

With  loads  of  love  to  all — just 

MITT. 


54  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XI I 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  ARGONNE 

OCTOBER   9,    1918. 
SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE, 
IN  A  BASE  HOSPITAL. 
DEAR  OLD  DAD — 

NOW  don't  get  excited,  old  timer,  on  account  of  the 
heading,  for  externally  I  am  just  as  I  was  when  you 
last  saw  me.  No  new  vents  in  my  system  due  to  Prussian 
frightfulness,  but  merely  a  little  carelessness  on  my  part. 
When  Fritz  saw  us  coming,  and,  believe  me,  we  were 
coming!  he  got  scared  and  threw  all  his  hand  grenades 
away  so  he  could  run  faster,  and  some  of  them  landed  in 
some  little  creek  from  which  I  had  to  drink  and  I  must 
have  swallowed  one  whole.  The  doctor  called  it  dysen- 
tery but  I  don't  think  he  was  considering  the  cause, 
merely  the  effect  produced.  Anyway,  I  am  about  O.  K. 
again,  though  pretty  weak  in  the  knees,  and  ready  to  go 
back  into  it  again  and  have  another  whirl  at  Fritz. 

We  went  over  the  top  the  morning  of  September 
26th,  in  a  dense  fog  into  a  perfect  jungle  which  was  full 
of  machine  guns  and  snipers.  We  played  tag  with  them 
until  we  got  tired  of  it  and  got  mad  enough  to  get  started 
and  then  we  went.  The  lads  on  either  side  couldn't  keep 
up,  and  after  three  days  of  pushing  forward  we  had  to 
hold  the  ground  we  had  gained  and  wait  with  both 
flanks  exposed  for  them  to  catch  up.  They  never  did 
make  it  and  fresh  divisions  had  to  be  put  in  to  do  it.  So, 
you  see,  our  Western  lads  are  some  fighters.  After  nine 
days  of  fighting  we  were  relieved,  as  we  were  pretty  well 
battered  up  by  the  artillery  fire  that  was  poured  in  from 
our  flanks.  They  dragged  me  out  of  the  fight  the  day 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  55 

we  were  relieved,  so  I  got  all  of  the  same  punishment 
that  the  outfit  did,  and  of  that  I'm  mighty  glad  or  I 
would  have  felt  like  a  slacker. 

I  didn't  pull  off  any  of  the  hero  stuff  nor  have  I  heard 
my  name  mentioned  for  a  D.  S.  C.  Like  the  rest  of  the 
lads  in  the  outfit,  I  did  all  I  could  to  maintain  the  repu- 
tation of  the  American  army  and  make  as  many  Boches 
sorry  that  they  sank  the  Lusitania  as  I  could.  I  am  not 
boasting,  Dad,  when  I  say  that  I  did  not  experience  any 
actual  physical  fear,  though  I  had  the  distinct  honor  of 
having  several  Boches  sniping  at  me  with  machine  guns 
at  one  time  while  I  was  splicing  a  wire.  They  are  rotten 
shots,  if  they  were  trying  to  hit  me.  And  one  son-of-a- 
gun  even  went  so  far  as  to  chase  me  across  an  open  field 
by  sniping  at  me  with  a  77,  which  corresponds  to  our 
three-inch  field  piece.  He  was  a  real  nasty  customer  and 
I  'd  like  to  meet  him  again  under  more  favorable  circum- 
stances— for  me. 

Sherman  was  dead  right,  only  he  didn't  go  far 
enough.  I  guess  the  censor  wouldn't  let  him.  While  you 
are  in  the  fight  you  can  stand  unspeakable  hardships 
and  never  kick.  Your  whole  finer  self  is  obliterated  and 
you  become  only  a  darn  good  hunter.  Nothing  else 
matters.  The  excitement  of  it  all  is  like  a  big  game,  you 
take  big  chances  to  attain  the  ultimate  success  and 
don't  count  the  cost.  But  the  real  hell  is  when  the  heat 
of  battle  goes  out  of  your  head  and  you  begin  to  think. 
It  is  like  a  wound,  it  don't  hurt  much  at  the  time — but 
later.  But  we  all  have  to  become  penny  philosophers 
and  make  the  best  of  it. 

By  the  papers  today  Billy  of  Potsdam  is  bleating  for 
an  armistice.  Well,  he  won't  get  it  yet  and  he  will  bleat 
a  damn  site  louder  before  we  get  through  kicking  him  in 
the  ribs.  The  damn  old  four-flusher  wants  to  cash  in  his 


56  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

chips  while  he  is  ahead  of  the  game.  We  will  have  to 
show  him  that  this  game  has  no  time  limit  and  he  can't 
quit  until  he  goes  broke  or  breaks  everyone  else  in  the 
game. 

This  is  your  birthday,  Dad,  and  I  haven't  any  of 
this  world's  goods  to  give  you  except  a  whole  lot  of  good 
wishes  and  the  hope  that  you  will  be  able  to  do  as  much 
good  to  the  old  U.  S.  in  the  coming  year  as  you  have  in 
the  past  twelve  months.  Such  I  know  is  your  wish.  I 
am  enclosing  a  couple  of  coins  that  one  of  my  Boche 
friends  pressed  on  me,  and  maybe  you  can  buy  a  thrift 
stamp  for  yourself  with  them  and  call  it  my  present  to 
you. 

Best  of  luck,  best  of  fathers,  and  my  love,  you  and 
Mother  and  all  of  the  minute  ramifications  of  our  whole 
tree,  branch  and  root. 

THE  KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  57 

CHAPTER  XI 1 1 

FRANCE,  OCTOBER  1 1,  1918. 
DEAREST  BOONIE  GIRL: 

T  RECEIVED  your  letter,  which  I  am  sending  back  to 
1  you,  on  the  firing  line,  in  the  middle  of  our  first  fight. 
I  was  lying  in  a  shell  hole  under  a  heavy  artillery  and 
machine  gun  fire  when  our  Chaplain  (a  good  Catholic 
priest  by  the  name  of  Jerry  Galvin)  who  had  been  to  the 
rear  with  some  wounded,  sought  shelter  in  the  same 
hole  and  produced  your  letter  from  his  pocket.  Being  a 
good  friend  of  mine  he  had  seen  the  letter  in  the  post- 
office  we  had  left  and  had  stuck  it  in  his  pocket  and 
brought  it  along.  The  fire  slackened  and  he  left  me,  to 
work  his  way  over  to  a  bit  of  woods. 

While  I  was  reading  your  letter  one  of  my  men  was 
badly  wounded  and  I  had  to  stop  reading  it  to  bind  up 
his  wound  (see  the  back  of  your  letter  for  evidences).  A 
sniper  had  shot  him  through  the  shoulder  and  the  bullet 
had  lodged  in  his  chest  (he  is  O.  K.  now  and  is  recover- 
ing rapidly) .  I  stuffed  your  letter  into  my  pocket,  sans 
envelope,  and  started  out  for  the  sniper.  Enclosed 
please  find  one  of  his  shoulder  straps. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  shoulder  strap,  and  I  am 
merely  sending  back  the  letter  with  it  as  I  figure  the 
two  should  make  a  good  souvenir  of  the  war  for  you  to 
keep  and  will  probably  be  of  some  interest  to  your 
kiddies. 

Love  to  you  and  Eddie,  who  will  probably  be  inter- 
ested in  the  part  played  by  Jerry  Galvin,  who  proved 
himself  some  man  in  our  first  fight. 

Just, 

MITT. 


58  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XIV 
A  SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

Excerpt  from  letter  of  Lieutenant  Emmet  N.  Britton  to  Mrs.  E. 
N.  Britton,  October  14,  igi8,  Base  Hospital  No.  42.  Received  No- 
vember 10,  igi8. 

AND,  then,  how  many  times  I  have  gone  over  the 
morning  work  on  the  ranch ;  get  up  and  plug  down 
into  the  kitchen,  make  the  fire  and  put  the  coffee  on, 
and  while  you  were  getting  breakfast,  out  into  the 
stable  and  feed  the  horses,  at  least  three  of  them,  one 
good  work  team  and  one  driving  mare  for  the  kiddies  to 
use  to  drive  to  school ;  milk  the  cow  and  set  the  big  pans 
down  in  the  cool  cellar  so  the  cream  will  rise.  We  will 
have  a  Jersey  cow ;  they  do  not  give  very  much  milk  but 
what  they  give  is  so  rich.  And  we  will  have  a  dog,  a  big 
fellow  to  keep  the  kiddies  company,  and  he  will  be  one 
of  those  sleepy  pups  who  will  let  the  kiddies  crawl  all 
over  him.  Then,  before  I  come  into  breakfast  I'll  have 
to  feed  the  chickens — I  haven't  decided  just  yet  whether 
they  will  be  White  Leghorns  or  Buff  Cochins.  Then  into 
breakfast,  set  in  a  sunny  corner  of  the  kitchen,  on  a 
table  with  a  blue  and  white  cloth  and  the  silver  shining 
and  sparkling  in  the  early  morning  sun.  For  breakfast 
we  will  have  some  blackberries  off  our  own  vines,  picked 
the  evening  before  and  soaked  in  sugar  over  night,  with 
vast  gobs  of  thick  lumpy  cream  over  them.  Then  a  big 
platter  of  rolled  oats,  piping  hot  with  more  cream  and 
powdered  sugar,  the  whole  to  be  finished  off  with  about 
three  sour  milk  hot  cakes  with  just  lots  of  butter  of  our 
own  making  spread  over  them. 

Then,  if  it  is  springtime,  put  in  the  morning  pruning 
or  harrowing ;  if  summer,  making  braces  for  the  heavy 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  59 

laden  branches,  or  inspecting  for  blight,  or  spraying;  if 
fall,  to  superintend  the  picking,  drying  and  packing, 
and,  in  the  winter,  repairing  trays  and  packing  boxes, 
putting  some  new  teeth  in  the  harrow. 

Then  lunch — look  over  the  San  Francisco  Examiner 
— we  see  where  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  is  in 
town — we  decide  to  hear  it.  Throw  a  few  things  into  a 
suitcase,  arrange  for  Mrs.  X.  to  stay  with  the  kiddies  and 
honk-honk  to  catch  the  1 :30  from  Marysville  to  connect 
up  with  local  from  Sacramento,  to  land  us  in  the  city  at 
6:30.  Dinner  at  Tait's,  phone  home  to  see  how  the  kid- 
dies are,  then  to  the  Cort  to  enjoy  the  Symphony.  Stay 
at  the  Manx,  see  the  folks  in  the  morning  and  put  in  the 
rest  of  the  morning  shopping.  A  couple  of  toys  for  the 
kiddies,  some  new  "undies"  for  you,  a  Hoosier  kitchen 
cabinet,  a  pair  of  boots  for  me,  early  lunch  at  Techau 
Tavern  with  Boon,  and  then  a  movie  until  3  :00,  when 
we  run  for  the  Ferry  and  back  we  go  up  the  valley,  ar- 
riving home  for  dinner.  After  dinner  the  kiddies  have 
to  see  what  we  have  brought  them — much  pretending 
on  our  part  that  we  plumb  forgot  them — the  excited 
investigation  of  the  suitcase  by  the  little  pirates  and 
their  joyous  squeals  at  discovering  their  plunder.  Fin- 
ally we  get  them  to  bed  and  sit  in  front  of  the  fireplace, 
try  out  on  the  Victrola  the  pieces  we  bought  that  we  had 
heard  the  night  before.  Then  to  bed,  to  sleep  a  little  late 
the  next  morning  on  account  of  our  strenuous  day  the 
day  before  and  because  Earl  and  Mila  are  coming  up  for 
the  week-end  and  are  to  arrive  that  evening.  Quite  a  bit  of 
fussing  around  that  day  with  me  trying  to  help  you  and 
managing  to  get  in  the  way  a  whole  lot  until  you  send 
me  into  town  for  some  necessary  provisions  we  are  short 
of.  So  I  hitch  up  Betty,  gather  in  the  kidlets,  set  them 
on  the  bottom  of  the  buggy  and  away  we  go.  Back  in 


60  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

time  to  dress  up  a  bit,  bathe,  and  you  insist  on  my  shav- 
ing and  cutting  the  lawn  before  the  Parrishes  arrive. 
Somehow  the  lawn  don't  get  cut  and  we  have  a  mad 
rush  in  the  flivver  to  meet  the  train.  We  get  there  fine 
and  dandy,  just  in  time  to  meet  them,  still  looking  bride 
and  groomy.  Earl's  hand-clasp  is  firm  and  you  don't 
notice  his  index  finger  being  gone,  while  the  limp  in  his 
right  leg  is  ever  so  slight. 

Out  to  the  ranch  we  go  on  three  cylinders,  Earl  kid- 
ding me  about  the  price  of  prunes  while  you  and  Mila 
are  furiously  talking  about  the  wonders  of  married  life. 
Then  supper,  but  Earl  and  I  are  about  inspecting  the 
place  and  we  get  just  a  wee  bit  of  a  scolding  because  the 
fruit  cocktail  has  gotten  warm  on  the  table.  But  a  good 
kiss  and  an  apology  make  it  all  O.  K.,  and  we  sit  down 
at  the  table,  Earl  kidding  Buster  about  having  a  case  on 
the  little  tow-headed  Swede  girl  who  lives  down  the  road 
a  bit.  Then  after  dishes  have  been  done  we  sit  around 
singing  and  playing  the  phonograph,  discussing  the 
latest  play  and  novel,  talking  over  good  old  Tacoma 
days,  when  we  fought  the  battle  of  Camp  Lewis  and  the 
siege  of  the  Hostess  House.  Finally  sleepy  time,  and  off 
we  pile  to  clean  white  sheets  and  lie  awake  a  little  while 
in  each  other's  arms  on  the  sleeping  porch,  glorying  in 
the  quiet  of  the  moon-lit  night  and  giving  thanks  to  God 
for  His  goodness  and  the  greatness  of  our  love.  Then 
being  awakened  to  find  the  sun  shining  brightly  and 
Earl  up  and  dressed  and  out  in  the  garden  singing 
"Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark."  Breakfast  eaten  slowly  and 
then  the  wild  scramble  to  get  ready  for  church,  for  we 
are  singing  in  a  vested  choir  in  Marysville  and  bring 
Earl  and  Mila  along  to  help  out.  Then  a  long,  round- 
about drive  home  and  Mrs.  Y.  has  the  dinner  ready  and 
the  table  set.  So  it's  all  hands  to  work  and  then  so  full 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  61 

we  can  hardly  waddle  we  get  out  and  bask  in  the  sun, 
lying  on  the  lawn  in  perfect  animal  comfort.  While 
there  we  persuade  Parry  that  it  will  be  O.  K.  if  he 
catches  the  six-thirty  next  morning  and  gets  to  S.  F.  by 
eleven.  So  we  put  in  a  good  chummy  Sunday  evening 
chatting,  playing,  singing,  playing  with  the  kiddies  be- 
fore we  put  them  in  their  beds  out  on  the  porch. 

And  so  ends  a  week  and  a  new  one  begins  for  us  as 
full  of  promise  of  happiness  as  the  one  past.  Two  eve- 
nings of  the  week  will  be  spent  in  study,  one  of  them  at 
least  on  our  professions,  yours — the  most  glorious  in  the 
world — that  of  a  wife  and  mother,  while  I  try  to  keep 
up  with  my  new  occupation  of  a  professional  agricul- 
turist by  taking  an  extension  course  from  the  University 
and  conferences  and  lectures  from  the  Farm  at  Davis. 
The  other  night  we  can  spend  together  reading  poetry 
or  some  good  book  by  an  authority  dealing  with  some 
of  the  big  questions  of  the  day  or  by  a  healthy  discus- 
sion aided  by  the  last  Literary  Digest. 

Such  have  been  my  dreams,  sweet  girl  of  mine,  and 
I  have  even  gone  further — pictured  you  having  a  cold, 
my  not  letting  you  get  up,  and  oh,  sweetheart,  the  joy 
it  brought  me  to  get  up  and  get  your  breakfast  and  try 
and  fix  up  a  dainty  tray. 

MITT. 


62  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XV 

RECOVERY 

OCTOBER  21,  1918. 
DEAR  DAD  AND  PEOPLE  ALL — 

AT  present  I  am  at  a  replacement  battalion  waiting 
to  be  sent  back  to  the  outfit,  and  it's  anxious  I  am 
to  rejoin  them,  principally  to  get  some  mail  from  you  all 
which  should  be  waiting  there  for  me.  I  hope  the  mail 
clerk  has  kept  it  and  not  forwarded  it  all  over  the 
country  trying  to  catch  me. 

I  lost  most  of  my  worldly  goods  in  this  last  drive  and 
as  I  returned  here  from  the  hospital  via  Paris  I  was  able 
to  draw  on  that  money  you  had  so  royally  placed  there 
at  my  disposal.  A  godsend  it  certainly  was,  for  I  was 
not  only  down  and  out,  but  ragged  and  bare.  All  is  fine 
now,  though,  and  I'll  give  you  all  the  details  in  my 
next  letter. 

This  is  just  a  wee  bit  of  a  note  to  tell  you  all  I'm  O. 
K.  and  thinking  of  you.  Mother  mine,  I'm  fine  and 
dandy,  and  don't  worry  about  my  being  cold  this 
winter.  I'll  make  out  all  right. 

Just  lots  of  love  to  all  of  you. 

MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  63 

CHAPTER  XVI 

MEMORIES 

FRANCE,  OCTOBER  29,    1918. 

THE  bright  autumn  sunshine,  cool  in  the  shade ;  a 
quaint  street  in  an  old  French  town,  winding 
down  the  hill,  losing  itself  in  a  sharp  turn  at  the  bottom. 
An  old  French  woman  cleaning  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes 
at  an  open  window,  a  detachment  of  American  troops 
going  back  to  the  front,  their  feet,  iron-shod,  make  the 
cobbles  ring.  The  cat  on  the  red  tile  roof  stirs  sleepily. 
The  footsteps  die  away,  the  old  lady  closes  the  wooden 
shutter,  the  cat  stretches  into  sleep  again.  All  is  quiet 
except  the  quacking  of  the  ever-present  duck  eating  the 
swill  out  of  the  gutter. 

Dad,  I  saw  this  and  wrote  it  down  as  it  happened  on 
the  back  of  an  order.  It  was  peculiar  I  should  be  moved 
by  my  "moose"  to  write  it,  but  I  did.  Now  in  the  best 
known  part  of  France  on  my  way  to  the  outfit,  in  a 
British  officers'  rest  house,  I  am  copying  it  and  sending 
it  to  you. 

If  you  had  been  in  that  village  and  seen  those  lads 
swinging  by,  you  too  would  have  pulled  out  a  piece  of 
paper  and  written  something,  far,  far  better  than  I  have. 
I  am  sending  you  this  knowing  you  will  understand. 
You  and  Becky  do.  God  bless  you,  Father  of  mine,  and 
my  only  regret  is  that  we  did  not  come  to  an  under- 
standing of  each  other  sooner.  It  would  have  been  a  lot 
better  were  it  so.  There  are  to  be  some  dandy  talks  be- 
tween "me  and  thee"  when  I  return.  Long,  confidential 
chats  which  none  would  understand  or  appreciate  ex- 
cept us. 


64  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

Father  of  mine,  we  have  both  erred — 7  in  fearing 
you  and  respecting  and  worshiping  you  from  afar  in- 
stead of  getting  close  to  you  and  finding  out  why  you 
were  what  you  are  so  I  could  better  follow  your  trail. 

You  in  failing  to  try  and  make  a  pal  of  me.  A  few 
years  ago  I  would  not  have  gone  to  you  had  I  been  in 
trouble.  Now  I  know  you,  I  am  a  pal  of  yours,  would  go 
to  hell  for  you  or  borrow  four  bits  of  your  last  dollar. 

Do  we  understand  each  other  now?  All  together, 
boys,  "We  Do!"  Yours, 

KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  65 

CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  GOOD  FELLOWS  GET  TOGETHER 


BACK  WITH  THE  COMPANY, 
NOVEMBER  1.  1918. 

DEAR  FOLKS  : 

BACK  again.  I  joined  up  today  with  the  lads  just  as 
they  were  being  relieved  for  a  rest.  They  had  done 
fine  work  and  the  morale  of  the  league  is  high. 

Jack  Richards  is  now  a  captain  and  in  charge  of  a 
company.  He  certainly  deserves  it  for  he  did  fine  work 
up  on  the  other  front. 

They  have  been  sending  all  my  mail  to  the  central 
postoffice,  so  I  guess  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  get 
it  again.  I  sure  was  some  disappointed,  but  there  will 
probably  be  a  couple  letters  from  you  in  the  next  batch, 
which  should  be  in  in  a  day  or  so. 

This  country,  so  flat,  so  desolate,  so  full  of  sorrow 
and  suffering,  makes  me  shudder  to  think  what  might 
have  been  the  fate  of  America  if  we  had  not  jumped  in 
when  we  did.  When  I  see  the  women  so  sad-eyed  and 
the  kiddies  so  listless  I  figure  that  might  have  happened 
to  you  and  our  kiddies,  and  I  am  glad  I  am  here. 

Winter  has  set  in,  a  low,  damp  cold  that  cannot  be 
kept  out  by  any  number  of  blankets  or  any  amount  of 
clothing.  My  bedding  is  way  to  the  rear  with  my  cloth- 
ing roll  and  musette  bag ;  when  they  catch  up  I  will  be 
better  provided  against  the  weather  than  I  am  now,  if 
there  is  anything  left  in  them. 

It  was  certainly  good  to  see  my  men  again;  quite  a 
few  have  gone,  but  there  are  still  a  number  of  familiar 
old  faces.  They  all  seemed  glad  to  see  me  and  it  warms 


66  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

your  heart  to  get  back  among  people  you  know  instead 
of  being  total  strangers.  In  a  small  way  it  gives  one  an 
idea  of  what  the  big  home-coming  will  mean ;  that  will 
certainly  be  one  big  time  of  rejoicing. 

This  is  the  hardest  time  of  the  war.  We  all  feel  that 
the  end  of  the  blame  thing  is  near,  and  the  men  having 
gone  through  safely  thus  far  hate  the  idea  of  another 
action  which  might  be  the  last  battle  of  the  war.  I 
cannot  really  blame  them. 

THE  KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  67 

CHAPTER  XVI 1 1 

ANTICIPATION 


SOMEWHERE   IN  BELGIUM, 
NOVEMBER  2, 1918. 

DEAREST  GIRL  OF  MINE — 

1AM  staying  here  at  the  divisional  headquarters  to- 
night and  tomorrow  will  join  the  outfit  which  is  in 
the  line.  It's  right  glad  I'll  be  to  join  them,  also,  for 
they  sent  Arthur  back  to  the  hospital  when  we  were 
about  to  start  from  the  replacement  battalion  and,  con- 
sequently, I  have  had  charge  of  a  big  bunch  bringing 
them  back  to  the  division  from  the  different  hospitals. 
It  has  been  a  wild  job  and  I  have  had  my  hands  full. 

It  has  been  quite  an  experience  traveling  through  this 
country  so  lately  liberated  from  the  Hun,  for  the  marks 
of  his  wanton  destruction  and  barbarity  are  seen  every- 
where. I  am  staying  tonight  in  a  beautiful  old  chateau 
with  perfectly  wonderful  grounds  around  it.  Fritz  left 
in  such  a  hurry  he  didn't  have  time  to  do  it  any  damage, 
but  some  of  the  towns  are  a  sight.  Last  night  we  stayed 
in  a  convent  in  a  town  which  had  at  one  time  a  popula- 
tion of  about  two  hundred  thousand.  Now  nobody  lives 
there  to  speak  of,  but  in  coming  out  on  the  road  today 
there  were  streams  of  people  returning  with  their  be- 
longings. Carts,  wagons,  baby  buggies  and  even  little 
wagons  drawn  by  dogs,  all  filled  with  household  goods, 
while  every  person  had  some  sort  of  a  bundle.  It  was 
really  a  mighty  pitiful  sight. 

The  women  here  all  show  the  strain  they  have  lived 
under  for  the  past  four  years  by  the  big  black  circles 
under  their  eyes  which  are  "sunken  with  weeping."  The 


68  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

kiddies  don't  know  how  to  play  or  laugh;  they  just 
wander  around,  owl-eyed  and  as  solemn  as  that  old  bird. 

Day  after  tomorrow  will  be  Pattie's  first  birthday. 
I  will  be  in  the  line  but  I  will  be  thinking  of  you  and  her 
on  that  day.  I  would,  dear  girl,  that  I  could  be  home 
with  you  for  the  celebration — what  a  birthday  party  we 
would  give  her.  I  suppose  you  will  have  a  cake  for  her 
and  I  know  you  will  be  thinking  of  me. 

It  looks  now,  honey,  as  though  this  fuss  might  be 
over  pretty  soon,  but  we  mustn't  look  forward  to  it  for 
fear  of  disappointments.  We  will  just  keep  plugging  and 
fighting  along  and  try  and  act  real  surprised  when  peace 
is  declared. 

Well,  girl  of  my  heart,  it's  late  now.  I've  had  a  hard 
time  the  last  few  days,  practically  no  sleep,  and  as  I 
have  a  mighty  hard  few  days  ahead  of  me  I'm  going  to 
turn  in.  Pray  for  me,  sweet  girl,  for  I  love  you  better 
than  all  else  in  the  world,  and  pray  to  God  for  your 
happiness. 

Just  your  boy, 

MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  69 

CHAPTER  XIX 

LA  GUERRE  FINIS 

NOVEMBER  15,  1918. 
DEAR  FATHER  OF  MINE: 

WE  ARE  only  poor,  weak  mortals  after  ail  So  I  'm 
going  to  sit  down  to  have  a  quiet  little  chat  with 
you.  The  armistice  is  on  and  we  have  changed  from  the 
strenuous  life  of  a  field  soldier  to  the  easy  ( ?)  going  life 
of  a  barracks  soldier  with  its  parades  and  ceremonies 
and  all  of  the  petty  little  things  that  involve  red  tape  by 
the  mile. 

While  we  were  leading  the  hard  life  in  the  field,  get- 
ting short  rations  of  food,  rest  and  sleep,  the  sedentary 
independent  life  of  a  prune  rancher  appealed  very 
strongly.  But  now  that  we  are  leading  a  life  of  enforced 
idleness,  the  crispness  of  these  early  winter  mornings 
makes  the  blood  race  in  your  veins  and  awakes  that 
little  restlessness  found  in  most  every  man,  and  known 
as  ambition.  I  don't  believe  I  am  ready  to  get  out  of 
the  fight  yet — I  mean  the  fight  that  is  going  on  in  every 
large  city,  where  the  young  men  are  fighting  to  gain  the 
places  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  which  are  now  held  by 
the  big  business  men.  My  qualifications?  I  believe  I 
possess  that  average,  amount  of  human  intelligence.  I 
have  had  a  liberal  education  and  have  a  smattering  of 
most  of  the  sciences,  but  am  master  of  none.  I  have  a 
broad  back,  am  not  afraid  of  hard  work  and  have  un- 
limited faith  in  myself  and  my  ability  to  get  along. 

I  guess  that  all  sounds  egotistical,  but  I  feel  full  of 
pep  and  jazz  this  morning  after  a  long  night's  sleep,  and 
the  morning  is  clear,  crisp  and  bright.  I  know  you  don't 


70  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

want  me  to  go  into  the  service  of  a  big  corporation  to 
become  a  wage  slave,  and  I  believe  I  can  see  your  point. 
The  army  is  no  place  for  a  man  in  peace  time — I  can't 
consider  it  for  a  minute,  even  as  a  possibility.  So  I  am 
up  the  creek  and  when  I  come  back  I  am  going  to  have 
a  good  long  talk  with  you  some  evening  about  the  whole 
thing.  Then  indeed  we  will  make  order  out  of  chaos  and 
settle  the  fate  of  nations. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  yesterday  at  this  Belgian 
farmhouse  where  I  am  staying.  The  old  couple's  nephew, 
a  private  in  the  Belgian  army,  returned  after  being  sep- 
arated for  four  and  a  half  years;  the  old  mother  sow, 
left  by  the  Germans,  brought  forth  thirteen  little  pork- 
ers to  help  repopulated  Belgium,  and  they  found  five 
out  of  a  dozen  hens  that  the  Huns  had  swiped.  Of  all 
the  clattering  of  wooden  shoes  and  clacking  of  Flemish 
tongues.  You  never  heard  the  like.  It  sounded  like 
Market  Street  on  a  New  Year's  Eve. 

How  do  you  like  the  way  things  are  going  in  Ger- 
many now?  Did  you  like  the  terms  of  the  armistice? 
We  are  all  hoping  that  the  Wild  West  division  will  be 
part  of  the  army  of  occupation,  and  although  it  would 
probably  mean  some  delay  in  getting  home,  still  it 
would  be  something  to  talk  about  when  you  were  old 
and  toothless  and  sat  in  a  chimney  corner  telling  your 
grandchildren  about  the  Last  War.  For  now  is  the  time, 
if  ever,  to  form  the  League  of  Nations  and  do  away  with 
this  sort  of  damphulishness  forever.  There  is  no  more 
glory  or  glamour  of  war,  the  long-range  guns  and  high- 
power  rifles  have  taken  away  all  of  that.  Most  of  the 
time  you  can't  see  the  men  you  are  shooting  at  and  who 
are  shooting  at  you. 

Well,  Dads,  if  they  don't  want  peace  when  this 
thirty  days  is  up,  then  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  force 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  71 

them  into  it.  We  don't  get  any  fun  out  of  this  fighting, 
but  we  will  see  the  whole  show  through.  The  end  is  not 
far  away  and  it  will  be  a  mighty  happy  day  for  this  kid 
when  he  can  clasp  you  by  the  hand  again  and  look 
into  your  kind  grey  eyes  and  say  "Dad,  I  done  my 
damdnest." 

Until  then  take  good  care  of  yourself,  play  plenty  of 
golf  and  don't  beat  Mother  too  often.  Best  to  the 
Britton.  Just, 

THE  KID. 


72  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XX 

RETROSPECTIVE 

IN  BELGIUM, 
NOVEMBER  13,  1918. 

To  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN— S.  T.  V.  B.  E.— E.  Q.  V. 
T  ADMIT  that  I  am  an  ungrateful  cub  and  all  that, 
[  and  that  you  all  have  certainly  been  mighty  fine  in 
writing  letters,  sending  newspaper  clippings  and  the 
like,  but  since  the  Argonne  drive,  which  started  Sep- 
tember 26th,  I  have  been  way  off  my  feed  until  just 
quite  lately.  So  I  have  decided  to  write  a  family  letter 
of  apology  and  try  to  give  you  some  idea  of  where  I 
have  been,  what  I  have  seen,  and  any  impressions  I 
may  have  received. 

Of  the  drive  in  the  Argonne  I'll  not  say  much,  be- 
cause I  am  unable  to  put  my  thoughts  on  paper.  I  could 
tell  you  of  it,  but  I  simply  can't  write  it.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  on  the  first  day  of  the  drive  my  canteen  went 
dry  from  giving  drinks  to  the  wounded  and  late  that 
evening  in  drinking  from  a  brook  I  must  have  swallowed 
an  electric  eel,  a  155-mm.  shell  or  a  hand  grenade,  for 
the  next  day  I  was  some  sick  kid.  It  rained  all  that  day 
and  as  I  was  without  a  slicker  and  got  soaked  and  a 
good  shot  of  gas,  it  merely  added  to  my  good  nature. 

The  division  stayed  in  until  the  night  of  the  third  or 
early  morning  of  the  fourth  of  October,  and  I  was  sent 
back  to  the  hospital  at  noon  of  the  third  as  I  was  too 
weak  to  stand  up.  While  waiting  for  an  ambulance  at 
the  first  aid  station  Fritz  started  to  shell  the  place  and 
created  some  consternation  among  the  wounded  lying 
there.  However,  although  he  tore  off  a  corner  of  the 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  73 

shack,  no  one  was  injured.  When  the  ambulance  came 
(it  was  a  Ford)  they  piled  us  in  and  away  we  went  for  a 
six-mile  run  down  a  shell-swept  valley,  creeping  at  a 
snail's  pace  along  a  corduroy  road  that  was  all  torn  up 
by  shells.  At  the  field  hospital  in  the  shelled  area  we  met 
the  Red  Cross — impersonally — in  the  form  of  candy, 
tarts,  cookies  and  cigarettes,  and  seconds  and  even 
thirds  and  no  questions  asked. 

From  there  they  loaded  us  into  big  three-ton  trucks 
and  we  had  a  regular  Jim  Martin  or  Barney  Oldfield  for 
a  driver,  and  back  through  the  cold  night  we  were  hurled. 
Suddenly  we  pulled  up  at  an  evacuation  hospital.  We 
were  cold,  hungry,  tired  and  dirty  with  the  filth  of  nine 
days'  fighting.  We  had  not  had  hot  food  for  a  week,  and 
the  first  building  we  were  put  in  was  the  distribution 
ward.  There  we  met  real  honest-to-God  white  women 
dressed  in  spotless  white  with  the  Red  Cross  caps  on 
and  they  had  a  big  fire  going,  lots  of  hot  chocolate, 
candy  and  cigarettes,  and  a  smile  and  a  cheery  word  for 
all.  How  tenderly  they  fed  the  poor  devils  whose  arms 
were  bound  up,  lit  cigarettes  and  put  them  in  their 
mouths  and  poured  hot  chocolate  out  of  feeding  cups 
down  the  throats  of  the  lads  whose  wounds  were  in  the 
face  and  mouth.  They  were  angels  of  mercy  and  every 
man  had  a  "God  bless  you"  for  them.  Then  we  were 
put  in  an  officers'  ward,  undressed  and  put  into  a  warm 
bed  between  white  sheets.  We  had  lived  and  slept  in 
our  clothes  for  so  long  that  they  actually  stuck  to  our 
bodies.  But,  oh,  the  luxury  of  those  sheets  and  hot 
water  bottles.  All  that  night  I  thrashed  around,  afraid 
to  sleep,  and  the  next  lay  there  perfectly  quiet,  my 
whole  body  absorbing  the  luxury  of  it  all.  That  night 
at  midnight  we  were  placed  on  a  hospital  train  (Red 
Cross)  and  sent  back  to  a  base  hospital  at  Bazoilles 


74  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

near  Neuf  chateau.  There  we  were  put  through  a  cleaning 
house  and  scrubbed  all  over  with  yellow  laundry  soap 
and  hot  water  with  sheep  dip  in  it  and  then  shaved  all 
over  to  facilitate  the  movements  of  the  cooties.  But  the 
luxury  of  it  all  to  feel  clean  again,  be  put  into  a  new  suit 
of  canton  flannel  pajamas  (four  sizes  too  large),  the  gift 
of  the  Red  Cross,  and  be  put  into  a  clean,  white  bed  in 
a  big  cool  clean  ward,  presided  over  by  a  fine  matronly 
Red  Cross  nurse  who  tucked  you  in  and  made  you  com- 
fortable. Then  joy  of  joys,  someone  turned  on  a  Vic- 
trola  and  played  the  Italian  street  song  from  "Naughty 
Marietta,"  and  it  sure  was  like  home. 

It  was  wonderful  there.  Every  day  or  so  the  Red 
Cross  chaplain  would  come  in  with  candy,  pipes  and 
pipe  tobacco,  gum,  cigarettes,  paper  and  enevlopes, 
handkerchiefs,  shaving  sets,  tooth  brushes  and  every 
luxury  imaginable;  from  "the  folks  back  home  in  the 
States,"  the  parson  would  say.  Also,  every  morning 
the  daily  papers  were  distributed  so  we  could  follow  the 
drive  in  detail.  The  parson,  whose  name  is  Everett 
Smith,  is  a  brother-in-law  of  Jack  Richards,  a  lieutenant 
in  my  company  at  that  time  and  who  is  now  captain  of 
our  company.  So  the  parson  and  I  had  some  fine  talks 
and  he  is  a  darn  good  man,  full  of  practical  religion. 

On  October  1 5th  I  found  that  they  were  figuring  on 
evacuating  me  back  further,  and  I  feared  I  would  never 
find  my  outfit  if  they  did,  so  I  put  in  for  a  return  to 
duty  and  on  the  morning  of  the  1 7th  I  was  discharged 
from  the  hospital.  I  went  to  the  regulating  station  at 
Is-sur-Tille  and  from  there  obtained  permission  to  go  to 
Paris  to  get  some  clothes,  as  I  was  disguised  as  a  private. 
I  fell  in  with  Art  Erb  while  at  the  hospital  and  arranged 
it  so  as  to  get  discharged  the  same  day,  so  on  we 
skipped  to  Paris  by  way  of  Dijon.  From  Paris  we  went 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  75 

to  Toul,  then  by  various  stages  to  St.  Dizier,  where  I 
lost  Art,  as  he  had  had  a  relapse  and  they  sent  him  back 
to  the  hospital.  At  St.  Dizier  I  picked  up  six  hundred 
and  thirty  men  of  the  division  who  were  returning  from 
leave  or  the  hospital,  and  with  them  I  started  for  Bel- 
gium by  way  of  Paris,  Amiens,  Boulogne,  Calais,  Dun- 
kirk, Ypres  and  Roulers,  from  which  place  we  hiked 
out  to  join  the  division,  which  was  then  in  the  line.  We 
caught  up  with  it  just  as  it  was  relieved  and  went  into 
billets  in  an  old  convent.  There  we  stayed  for  four  days, 
putting  on  a  minstrel  show  to  which  the  sisters  and 
Mother  Superior  were  invited.  They  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it  before  and  it  was  quite  a  sight  to  watch 
their  faces  as  they  looked  on  at  the  foolish  capers. 

We  moved  out  next  morning  at  daylight  and  hiked 
all  day  through  a  Flanders  rain  and  Flanders  mud,  and 
billeted  at  night  in  a  tiny  Belgian  village.  The  next  day 
we  rested,  but  the  next  morning  at  2  a.m.  we  pulled  out 
in  the  dark  and  marched  out  to  encounter  the  enemy  at 
daybreak.  We  pushed  on  through  the  day,  meeting  prac- 
tically no  opposition  and  billeted  that  night  ready  to 
push  on  and  capture  a  high  row  of  hills  the  next  morn- 
ing. The  barrage  was  to  start  at  nine  forty-five,  the  at- 
tack at  ten,  and  we  were  figuring  on  the  map  our  route 
when  the  phone  rang  and  the  operator  asked  for  the 
brigade  commander,  who  was  at  our  P.  C.  at  the  time. 
When  the  general  hung  up  the  phone  he  said,  "Gentle- 
men, there  has  been  a  suspension  of  hostilities  along  the 
entire  front."  Boy,  but  that  was  a  grand  and  glorious 
feeling!!! 

Since  that  time  we  have  been  waiting  here  in  our 
tracks,  waiting  for  the  word  to  move  up  to  the  Rhine, 
which  is  going  to  be  some  move,  and  I  sure  hope  we  are 
part  of  the  "Army  of  Occupation."  That  will  be  some- 


76  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

thing  to  tell  your  grandchildren  about,  and  if  it  comes 
about  I  hope  the  U.  S.  don't  forget  and  leave  us  there 
for  a  couple  of  years  to  police  up  the  German  Bolsheviki. 
If  they  do  I'm  afraid  I'll  be  tempted  to  go  A.  W.  O.  L. 

Belgium  is  a  great  little  country,  much  cleaner,  more 
fertile  and  more  picturesque  than  La  Belle  France. 
Also,  in  spite  of  all  it  has  gone  through,  prices  are  much 
better  than  in  France,  where  the  idea  seems  to  be  to  rob 
the  American  soldier  as  quickly  as  possible.  I'm  off 
France  for  life.  The  Belgians,  as  we  fight  our  way  through 
their  villages,  which  are  as  thick  as  fleas  on  a  dog's  back, 
wait  at  the  doors  and  hand  out  rye  bread  sandwiches, 
milk  and  even  beer  to  our  lads  as  they  go  by.  Always  a 
smile  and  a  cheer  for  us  and  a  big  hearty  welcome. 

The  countryside  is  full  of  quaint  sights  and  people. 
The  other  day  I  saw  a  girl  plowing  a  field  and  the  beast 
of  burden  was  the  family  cow.  Being  dinner  time  the 
girl  pulled  a  chunk  of  bread  from  her  petticoat  pocket, 
produced  a  small  bucket  from  some  place,  milked  the 
cow,  ate  her  bread  and  milk,  and  went  on  with  the 
plowing.  And  believe  me,  she  was  some  girl,  with  a  hand 
like  a  man,  an  arm  as  big  as  my  leg,  wooden  shoes  and 
no  stockings. 

The  name  "No  Man's  Land"  was  created  in  the 
Ypres  sector  and  it  is  a  fitting  name  for  it.  It  was  the 
worst  scene  of  desolation  I  have  ever  seen  and  reminded 
one  of  some  of  Dore's  pictures  of  hell.  Try  to  picture  a 
perfectly  flat,  boggy  country  stretching  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  see  in  all  directions,  cut  up  by  frequent,  slug- 
gish, half-stagnant  streams.  Spot  it  with  shell  holes 
of  all  sizes  so  thick  that  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
spread  out  a  sheet  without  touching  a  hole,  and  not  a 
sign  of  life  in  the  country,  no  trees,  no  grass,  nothing  to 
break  the  monotonous  stretch,  not  even  ruins.  At  one 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  77 

cross-roads,  hardly  discernible,  was  a  low  post  with  a 
sign  on  it,  "Ici  Poelcapoel" — and  the  name  of  a  good- 
sized  town.  There  was  no  town  left,  no  ruins,  not  even 
a  trace  of  a  brick.  1 1  was  dusk  when  I  passed  through  and 
in  the  fading  half  light  it  seemed  all  the  more  desolate, 
and  the  only  live  thing  I  saw  was  a  big  slimy  grey  rat 
which  slunk  along  the  parapet  of  a  deserted  trench  and 
disappeared  down  a  dugout.  Strewn  about  was  the 
wreckage  of  four  years  of  war.  Big  tanks  lying  deserted 
in  ditches,  all  torn  up ;  miles  upon  miles  of  barbed  wire, 
deserted  gun  carriages  and  parts  of  equipment  and 
clothing  strewn  all  around.  It  reminded  me  somewhat 
of  the  dumping  grounds  on  the  Alameda  marshes,  in- 
tensified to  infinity. 

We  have  been  very  lucky  as  far  as  weather  goes. 
Usually  by  this  time  all  of  Flanders  is  a  sea  of  mud,  but 
the  last  few  days  have  been  clear,  cold  and  as  bright  as 
California's  Indian  summer.  It  was  the  holding  off  of 
winter  that  has  brought  this  war  to  such  a  sudden 
termination.  I  suppose  about  the  time  we  start  to  hike 
towards  Cologne  it  will  start  to  rain,  but  I  guess  it  won't 
worry  us  much. 

Well,  kind  people,  I  guess  my  verbal  hemorrhage 
will  stop  now,  as  it  is  past  bed  time,  and  it's  hard  enough 
to  get  out  of  bed  these  mornings  when  one  isn't  sleepy. 
Drink  my  health  at  Christmas  and  New  Year's  dinners 
and  believe  the  boy  when  he  says  that  no  matter  where 
he  is  on  Christ's  birthday,  he  will  be  thinking  of  each 
and  every  one  of  you.  May  God  bless  you  all,  and  may 
it  be  the  best  of  Christmases  for  there  will  be  "peace  on 
earth."  Next  time  I'll  be  with  you,  and  here's  hoping 
it  will  be  considerable  before  that.  A  cheerio  to  you  all. 

Just, 

MITT. 


78  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXI 

NEWS  FROM    HOME 

AMERICAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCES  IN  BELGIUM, 
NOVEMBER  30,  1918. 
NOVEMBER  31,  1918. 
DECEMBER  3,  1918. 

DEAR  PEOPLE  ALL — 

LAST  night  I  received  over  sixty  letters  from  you  all, 
so  today  I  feel  in  duty  bound  to  try  and  answre 
them  at  one  fell  swoop  by  writing  one  "flusy"  (instead 
of  measley)  little  letter.  I  hope  the  letter  makes  you  all 
feel  achey  (like  the  flu  does)  but  I  hope  you  will  ache  to 
gather  me  again  into  your  collective  bosoms,  and  not  to 
get  at  me.  The  big  batch  of  mail  is  all  that  has  been  mis- 
directed to  me  (some  of  it  dating  back  to  July  when  the 
Dodo  was  rampant)  and  the  rest  of  it  mail  that  tried  to 
follow  me  to  the  hospital  but  did  not  succeed.  I  cer- 
tainly did  have  an  orgy  last  night — the  best  party  I 
have  had  since  arriving  overseas,  for  one  of  the  pack- 
ages Dad  sent  by  the  "King"  arrived,  and  so  I  sat 
munching  and  reading  until  the  "wee  sma" — I  believe 
it  was  10:30  (or  22:30)  when  I  turned  in.  (Pardon  me 
while  I  switch  to  a  pencil  as  this  continental  ink  isn't 
worth  a  continental  dam — please  pardon,  no  pun  was 
meant.) 

You  have  all  been  so  darn  good  about  writing  that  I 
feel  like  a  piker  for  not  writing  more  often,  but  you  all 
have  me  fussed  to  death,  comparing  my  writing  to 
Brother  Jawn's,  who  has  me  backed  off  the  globe  when 
it  comes  to  description. 

This  is  really  a  great  little  country,  full  of  wooden 
shoes  and  big  Dutch  windmills,  red  tile  or  thatched 
roofs  and  tile  floors,  cobblestone  roads  and  turnip 


!l 

jo  O 
rfl  o 
o  < 

^  z 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  79 

patches.  The  people  are  a  queer  mixture,  sort  of  a  com- 
pote of  Dutch,  German  and  French,  and  speaking  a 
most  ungodly  language  they  call  "Flemish."  It  cer- 
tainly makes  one  fling  a  nasty  tongue  to  pronounce  the 
names  of  towns  and  villages.  However,  we  soon  hope 
to  be  en  route  (by  the  Hob-Nail  Route)  to  France  where 
we  will  be  able  to  talk  fluently  ( ?)  with  the  natives. 

Rambling  through  the  country  as  we  are  we  certainly 
find  some  peculiar  places  to  flop  when  it  gets  dark. 
Sometime  back  we  were  quartered  for  the  night  in  a 
large  farmhouse,  half  of  which  had  been  all  blown  up  by 
one  of  Fritz's  Minnies,  which  do  blow  some  considerable 
hole.  Not  having  any  bedrooms  left,  the  whole  family 
dragged  in  straw  from  the  barn  where  the  men  were 
quartered  and  spread  it  on  the  kitchen  floor  for  us  to 
sleep.  After  supper  there  started  a  game  of  watchful 
waiting.  We  were  waiting  for  the  family  to  go  to  bed 
and  they  were  for  watching  us.  Finally  we  threw  dis- 
cretion to  the  winds,  took  off  our  boots  and  blouses,  un- 
folded our  blankets  and  lay  down  near  the  stove.  The 
family  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  then  huddled  up  in 
a  ball  in  a  far  corner,  blew  out  the  light  and  the  fight 
was  on.  Speaking  of  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta — well, 
it  must  have  smelled  like  a  sweet  wildwood  violet  along 
side  of  this  place,  for  on  the  stove  they  were  cooking  up 
a  mess  of  buttermilk  and  sour  potatoes  and  under  the 
stove  was  a  ten-gallon  tin  of  sour  milk  which  was  to  be 
churned  in  the  morning.  Well,  silently,  one  by  one,  we 
slipped  out,  and  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  to  find  I  was 
lying  on  the  cow's  breakfast  from  which  she  was  trying 
to  nose  me.  Oh,  it's  a  great  life  if  you  don't  weaken,  but 
these  cobblestone  roads  hammer  you  all  to  pieces,  and 
every  bone  in  the  old  body  aches  at  the  end  of  a  twenty- 
five-kilometer  hike. 


80  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

There  is  one  thing  that  rather  gets  on  our  nerves, 
and  that  is  the  utter  lack  of  charm  or  grace  or  modesty 
on  the  part  of  the  women  over  here.  Of  course,  all  we 
ever  meet  are  of  the  peasant  class,  but  they  have  no 
hesitation  about  combing  their  hair  or  changing  their 
shoes  and  stockings  in  front  of  you !  Man,  oh,  man,  let 
your  conscience  be  your  guide.  But  even  at  that  there's 
nothing  pretty  in  a  hand-knitted  wool  stocking. 

There  is  a  clock  in  the  house  I  am  staying  in  now 
that  instead  of  striking  the  hour  by  a  bell,  starts  a 
music  box  going  which  plays  for  a  couple  of  minutes. 
Quite  a  stunt,  eh? 

Received  the  large  pictures  of  Becky  and  the  babes 
today,  and  they  made  the  kid  a  wee  bit  homesick.  Gosh, 
you  can't  blame  me,  and  now  that  this  fuss  seems  to  be 
over,  you  give  way  to  little  things  like  that  and  simply 
gloat  over  them  a  while  before  you  fight  them  off.  We 
want  to  get  home  in  the  quickest  possible  way,  but  it 
would  be  just  our  luck  to  be  the  Watch  on  the  Rhine 
next  Fourth  of  July.  If  we  are,  some  infantry  regiment 
I  know  of  is  going  to  be  S.  O.  L.  for  a  signal  officer,  for 
he  will  either  be  A.  W.  O.  L.  en  route  to  the  U.  S.,  or  he 
will  be  trying  to  drown  himself  in  Pilsner. 

I  have  been  picking  up  pieces  of  lace  here  and  there 
in  this  country  and  some  of  it  I'm  shipping  to  Becky, 
and  other  pieces  I  am  going  to  bring  home.  They  make 
some  beautiful  stuff  up  here,  but  an  American  soldier 
has  no  more  idea  of  the  value  of  a  franc  than  a  Boche 
has  of  straight  shooting.  Also,  we  can't  tell  a  good  piece 
of  lace  from  a  bum  piece,  so  we  simply  grab  a  chunk 
that  looks  like  something  we  have  seen  on  a  priest's 
vestments  or  a  chorus  girl's  petticoat  (from  the  front 
row  of  the  Orpheum)  jabber  "combien"  and  lay  down 
a  handful  of  this  tissue  paper  money.  The  girl  sizes  up 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  81 

the  pile,  uses  her  own  good  judgment,  shoves  over  a 
bunch  of  clackers  and  smiles  a  sweet  "merci."  Oh,  this 
is  a  great  life  all  right.  Nothing  ever  goes  along  with  any 
degree  of  evenness.  You  are  either  broke  or  flush, 
stuffed  or  starving,  laying  around  or  hiking  your  head 
off,  going  without  any  sleep  or  hitting  it  off  for  twelve 
hours  a  night.  Civil  life  is  certainly  going  to  be  irksome 
for  a  while  for  the  National  army  men.  They  are  going 
to  find  it  mighty  hard  to  go  back  to  their  law  offices  and 
ribbon  counters,  their  pen-pushing,  penny-seeking  jobs, 
for  those  lads  have  done  things  and  seen  something  of 
life.  It  will  take  some  time  for  them  to  get  back  to  the 
old  life,  and  I  fully  expect  it  will  take  one  generation  to 
get  things  into  a  "before  the  war"  frame  of  mind.  They 
won't  get  down  to  serious  thoughts,  and  just  today  as 
we  were  being  debused  (or  decootied)  in  a  German 
bathhouse,  two  privates  were  talking  about  what  was 
going  to  be  done  "apres  la  guerre."  "Aw,  hell,"  he  said, 
"I  should  worry."  Then  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  "What's 
the  biggest  river  in  the  world?"  "Powder  River"  came 
the  roar,  and  "Let  'er  buck."  They  are  a  bunch  of  irre- 
sponsible kids.  They  haven't  had  to  use  their  brains  for 
over  a  year,  have  gone  it  blind,  and  have  been  taken 
care  of  as  though  they  were  children,  even  to  the  castor  oil. 
Many  of  them  will  never  go  back  to  inside  jobs,  and  will 
only  be  satisfied  with  a  good  clean  out-of-doors  job.  But 
they  are  damn  good  fighters  and  you  can't  help  but  like 
them.  They  are  a  great  bunch  of  lads.  Keep  an  eye 
open  for  us  when  we  start  home,  for  they  expect  some 
welcome,  and  they  know  San  Francisco  will  give  it  to 
them. 

Love  to  you  all — we  are  on  the  go  again. 

MITT. 


82  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXI I 

WAITING 

LE  THIEL,  FRANCE, 
JANUARY  5,  1919. 
DEAR  FATHER  o'  MINE— 

LAST  night  I  received  your  letter  number  twenty- 
two,  dated  December  1,  and  it  is  certainly  "a 
grand  and  glorious  feeling"  to  receive  a  letter  like  that. 
You  don't  know  how  I  look  forward  to  your  letters,  and 
in  spite  of  a  heavily  laden  musette  bag,  I  always  fid 
room  in  it  for  your  letters,  and  I  believe  I  have  your 
complete  file.  They  help  out  a  lot,  especially  when  the 
mail  doesn't  arrive  for  three  or  four  weeks,  and  like  a 
good  book  or  a  good  piece  of  poetry,  they  present  some 
new  thought  each  time  they  are  read. 

We  are  in  the  central  part  of  France  now,  between 
Le  Mans  and  Nogent  le  Rotrou,  in  a  little  village  called 
La  Thiel.  I  am  billeted  with  one  of  the  F.  F.  T.  (First 
Families  of  the  Town)  and  I  take  back  all  the  nasty 
things  I  said  about  France.  They  still  hold  true  for  the 
parts  of  France  I  was  in  at  that  time,  but  this  neck  of 
the  woods  is  far  different.  The  people,  town,  streets 
and  even  the  kiddies  are  clean,  and  I  have  seen  what  I 
thought  I  never  would  see  in  this  country — an  honest- 
to-God  bath  room  with  a  real  tub  in  it.  It  is  in  this 
house,  and  while  I  have  never  heard  of  anyone  using  it, 
I  am  still  living  in  hopes  that  it  will  turn  out  to  be  more 
than  an  ornament.  It  may  be  one  of  the  Lares  or  Pen- 
ates of  this  household,  and  if  so,  I  don't  want  to  insult 
these  good  people  in  my  bum  French  by  offering  to 
desecrate  it  for  them.  Let  one  of  the  family  but  set 
foot  on  the  edge  of  it,  however,  and  I'm  going  to  run  in 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  83 

the  kitchen  and  yell  in  my  best  French,  "Next  on  the 
bathtub." 

Another  startling  discovery  I  have  made  is  that  you 
can't  make  a  fire  burn  in  a  French  fireplace  by  using 
American  methods  and  cussing  at  it  in  good  old  Amer- 
ican mule-skinner's  talk.  No,  you  must  fix  the  wood  as 
if  you  were  trying  to  keep  it  from  burinng,  talk  to  it 
chidingly  as  though  talking  to  a  child,  kiss  one  end  of  the 
log  and  turn  your  back  to  it,  resolved  to  let  the  damn 
thing  alone  and  freeze  to  death.  Then,  in  a  few  minutes, 
sneak  up  on  it  and  you  will  find  enough  fire  to  warm  the 
calves  of  your  legs,  if  you  take  your  puttees  off,  but 
have  your  "puts"  off  before  you  begin  the  sneaking-up 
process,  for  as  soon  as  that  fire  realizes  that  there  is  a 
foreigner  in  the  room  it  gets  sick.  I  was  considerably 
worried  about  the  action  of  that  wood  for  a  while,  but 
now  I  know  it  is  cut  by  German  prisoners. 

For  a  while  we  believed  that  we  would  embark  about 
the  end  of  this  month  or  the  middle  of  February  at  the 
latest.  But  now  we  think  we  will  be  lucky  if  we  get  out 
of  here  by  April.  In  the  army  rumors  are  rampant  and 
are  based  on  the  most  trifling  incidents.  The  man  that 
set  up  woman  as  the  maximum  of  fickleness  had  cer- 
tainly never  put  in  a  hitch  in  the  army. 

It  is  certainly  a  relief  to  get  away  from  Belgium  with 
its  mud  and  fat,  stupid  people.  This  part  of  France  is 
just  like  old  California,  and  it  certainly  is  great  to  be 
able  to  feast  one's  eyes  upon  the  green  rolling  hills.  The 
people  here  are  kindly  and  generous  to  a  fault,  and  I 
have  been  received  into  the  family  of  M.  Ligereau  as  a 
son.  Mother  L.  puts  flowers  in  my  room  every  morning 
and  very  carefully  dusts  off  the  pictures  of  Becky  and 
the  Cyclone  and  Dresden  Doll.  God  bless  them.  I'll 
hardly  know  them  by  the  time  I  get  back. 


84  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

I'll  bet  you  had  some  Christmas  and  New  Year's. 
Mine  were  pitiful,  but  as  I  don't  believe  in  self-pity  I 
couldn't  feel  at  all  sorry  for  myself.  I  managed  to  pass 
the  day  by  a  pot-bellied  stove  that  wasn't  designed  to 
give  out  heat,  and  served  champagne  and  Scotch  dur- 
ing the  afternoon  to  all  comers,  and  in  the  evening  won 
five  francs  in  a  game  of  bridge  with  Art  Erb  as  my 
partner  against  Bill  Baily  and  Cap  Christian. 

New  Year's  Day  was  a  dry  one  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, as  I  was  suffering  from  another  touch  of  my 
old  friend  who  sent  me  to  the  hospital.  In  fact,  he 
comes  around  to  see  me  about  one  or  two  days  a  week 
and  always  hits  me.  I  'm  going  to  shake  him,  though,  once 
I  get  off  the  army  ration. 

Best  love  to  you  and  my  "Shorty,"  and  give  a  "bon 
jour"  and  cheerio  to  all  the  rest  of  those  I  love  who 
love  me.  Just, 

THE  KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  85 

CHAPTER  XXI 1 1 

THE  FUTURE 

NOGENTLE,  l.OTROU, 

JANUARY  17,  1919. 
DEAR  FATHER  OF  MINE — 

YOUR  dandy  letter  of  December  22d-26th  received 
yesterday  and  it  was  sure  a  dandy  and  made  the  Kid 
feel  pretty  blamed  well.  I  don't  know  just  how  to  put 
it,  but  I  had  to  move  the  second  button  on  my  blouse 
and  order  a  new  cap.  You  are  going  to  spoil  me  sure  if 
you  haven't  already  done  so,  with  all  of  your  blarney, 
and  I'm  afraid  I'll  sprain  my  arm  trying  to  pat  myself 
on  the  back. 

Have  received  all  the  "Pacific  Service"  magazines 
up  to  date,  the  last  one  received  being  the  November 
issue,  and  you  can  tell  Fred  Myrtle  to  get  in  training  for 
a  three-round  go  for  printing  those  letters  of  mine  as 
he  did.  Also,  tell  him  that  while  I  am  wearing  a  gold 
chevron  on  my  left  sleeve,  my  right  sleeve  is  devoid  of 
any  decoration,  and  thank  God  that  it  is.  Also,  Dad, 
that  thing  re-fear  was  for  private  consumption.  I  was 
darned  badly  scared  several  times — you  realize  the  dif- 
ference, but  I  'm  afraid  that  most  of  the  readers  of  that 
article  won't,  and  they  will  put  me  down  for  a  boasting 
braggart.  However,  public  opinion  won't  break  up  my 
happy  home,  so  us  should  worry.  Eh,  wot  ? 

So,  Daddy  mine,  I'm  coming  home  with  my  mind 
made  up  to  cut  loose  from  the  P.  G.  &  E.  and  look  for 
a  new  field  of  endeavor.  But  if  I  am  lucky  and  make 
good  in  my  new  field  and  make  a  name  for  myself  and 
the  P.  G.  &z  E.  should  make  me  an  offer,  I'm  afraid  that 
I  would  be  pretty  muchly  tempted  by  my  first  love. 


86  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

For,  God  knows,  in  the  hills  I  gave  the  P.  G.  &  E.  all  I 
had  of  loyalty,  and  there  were  many  twenty-four-hour 
shifts  in  a  row  during  the  hard  winters  that  did  not 
show  on  my  time  cards.  I  know  that  South  Yuba  Sys- 
tem, Dad,  I  believe  better  than  any  man  in  your  head 
office,  and  some  day  when  I  get  back  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  a  few  things  about  it  that  the  mountain  people  I 
loved,  and  who  loved  me  in  their  rough  way,  told  me 
about.  But  it  will  wait.  In  the  meantime,  Dad,  keep 
your  off  ear  open  at  the  clubs,  for,  remember,  when  I 
take  a  job  I'll  have  three  mouths  to  feed,  and  the  job 
must  have  a  future.  I  don't  care  where  I  go — Alaska, 
South  America,  the  Orient  or  Europe — and  I'm  not 
afraid  to  sign  up  a  three  or  five-year  contract,  and,  boy! 
I'm  a  bear  for  hard  work;  I  like  it.  That's  one  reason 
I'm  off  this  army  game.  Under  war  conditions  it's  O.  K., 
but  now,  under  peace  conditions,  there  is  too  much 
sitting  around  and  answering  "by  endorsement  hereon." 
To  Hades  with  this  sitting  around  waiting  for  some  one 
to  die  before  you  can  move  up  a  peg.  That  is  too  slow 
a  system  for  me;  if  I'm  better  than  the  man  ahead  of 
me  I  want  a  crack  at  his  job,  and  if  the  man  behind  me 
can  handle  my  job  better  than  I  can  I'm  willing  to  give 
him  a  chance  at  it;  but  he  had  better  burn  hard  coal,  for 
I  'm  sure  going  to  try  and  take  it  away  from  him  if  I  can. 
You  know  my  qualifications  better  than  I  do;  you 
can  get  letters  of  recommendation  from  Jim  Martin, 
and,  I  believe,  P.  M.  D.  I  am  almost  (four  more  days) 
twenty-seven  years  old.  I  stand  five  feet  eight  inches, 
and  weigh  about  a  hundred  and  sixty — not  much  fat 
on  me.  I  have  had  a  good  general  education.  I  believe 
I  possess  the  average  amount  of  human  intelligence.  I 
write  a  poor  hand,  but  I  can  always  dictate  to  a  good 
steno.  I  am  married,  have  two  children  and  am  deeply 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  87 

in  love  with  my  wife.  I  drink  an  occasional  glass  of 
beer  and  smoke  Bull  Durham  and  P.  A.  (the  joy  smoke), 
the  latter  in  a  regular  "jimmy  pipe."  I  am  an  Episcopalian 
by  religion  (when  I  get  it)  and  Scotch-Irish  (not  a  Sinn 
Feiner)  by  descent.  How  much  am  I  bid  ? 

We  expect  to  leave  here  by  the  middle  of  February, 
which  should  land  us  at  Camp  Lewis  or  Fremont  by  the 
middle  of  March  at  the  latest.  If  I  am  able  to  I'll  cable 
from  this  side  when  we  start,  but  if  not,  then  I'll  sure 
stretch  some  liberties  to  cable  from  New  York,  or 
wherever  we  land.  Oh,  Boy,  won't  that  be  a  grand  and 
glorious  feeling?  We  have  dreamed  of  it  so  much  and 
for  so  long  that  when  we  do  really  land  it  isn't  going 
to  seem  real.  This  whole  fracas  over  here  now  just 
seems  like  a  bad  dream,  and  I  believe  that  if  we  go  back 
to  Camp  Lewis  and  into  our  same  old  barracks  that 
we  will  have  a  hard  time  persuading  ourselves  that  we 
ever  were  away  at  all. 

Had  a  fine  time  by  myself  yesterday  morning.  On 
top  of  hill  on  the  outskirts  of  the  present  town  stands 
the  old  castle  of  Rotrou,  the  first  he  built  in  1024,  being 
the  lord  of  this  community  at  that  time.  The  old  town 
is  all  huddled  around  it,  for  protection,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  bunch  of  fuzzy  chicks  gathered  around  a 
mother  hen  who  has  spotted  a  hawk  in  the  sky  overhead. 
The  grim,  grey  eastern  tower  is  in  ruins  and  the  ivy  has 
grown  out  of  the  moat  and  entwined  itself  around  the 
buttresses  and  pilasters,  while  the  loopholes  that  at  one 
time  sent  out  grim  harbingers  of  death  in  the  form  of 
cloth  yard  arrows  now  give  life  to  those  coal  black,  re- 
pulsive carrion  crows.  They  seemed  to  fit  into  the  pic- 
ture perfectly,  for  probably  their  ancestors  had  dined 
well  out  of  the  moat  which  is  now  empty  and  choked 
with  rank  grass  and  weeds. 


88  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

As  I  sat  there  in  the  warm  sunshine,  on  the  edge  of 
the  moat,  I  thought  of  Mallory  and  Tennyson,  of  Rich 
Coeur  de  Leon,  and  of  Ivanhoe,  and  I  had  the  time  of 
my  young  life.  I  later  inspected  the  battlements  and 
would  probably  have  gone  farther  had  not  the  care- 
taker seen  me  and  given  me  the  run.  On  the  safe  side 
of  the  barbed  wire  entanglement  (by  courtesy  called  a 
fence)  I  again  looked  the  old  heap  over.  Now  that  I 
have  seen  a  real  "he  castle"  I  think  I'll  be  able  to  read 
medieval  stories  with  more  interest.  I  think  as  I  left 
I  muttered  a  couple  of  "Od's  Bloods"  and  "S*  Deaths" 
between  my  cuspids,  and  putting  my  left  hand  on  my 
hip  to  keep  the  sword  ( ?)  from  between  my  legs,  strode 
down  the  hill  to  talk  to  my  naughty  varlets  on  radio 
telegraphy.  That  nine-century  jump  backwards  was  a 
hard  one  to  take. 

Have  you  read  Kipling's  "Hymn  Before  Action" 
lately?  Try  it.  I  think  you  will  find  it  fits  the  tongue 
nicely  even  now. 

Well,  Daddy,  must  be  stepping  out  now  to  see  that  the 
men  are  ready  for  their  hike  back  to  Le  Thiel  tomorrow 
morning.  I  believe  I  have  the  greatest  platoon  in  the 
world.  Up  in  Belgium  they  finished  a  forty-kilometer 
hike  under  full  packs,  singing  like  it  was  the  start. 
They  sing  wherever  they  go  and  while  they  kid  each 
other  along  all  the  time,  woe  be  unto  the  man  who 
grouses. 

By  the  time  you  get  this  letter  I  hope  we  will  be  em- 
barking, so  you  would  better  put  the  calf  on  a  corn  diet. 
Even  if  I  don't  get  home  until  July  I  want  some  hot 
mince  pie  with  ice  cream.  I  think  we  all  have  missed 
hot  mince  pie  more  than  any  one  article  of  food  during 
the  holiday  season. 

For  the  present,  bye-bye.    Give  my  love  to  those 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  89 

that  I  love  who  love  me,  but  keep  a  whole  chunk  of  it 
out  for  yourself  and  Mother  mine. 

I  am  still — and  always  will  be — Just, 

THE  KID. 


90  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

STRAY  THOUGHTS 

LE  THIEL, 

SUNDAY,  JANUARY  26,  1919 
DEAR  FOLKS  AND  ALL — 

SUNDAY  in  France — snow  all  over  everything — a 
batch  of  letters  from  home.  Picture  me,  if  you  can, 
in  a  typical  French  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
sitting  in  a  funny  little  bedroom  while  I  keep  warm  by 
an  American  stove  which  is  kept  full  of  bum  French 
coal  which  my  Swede  striker  (or  orderly)  John  L.  Sul- 
livan swipes  from  the  railroad,  or  God  knows  where.  He 
has  his  orders  to  keep  this  fire  going  and,  being  a  good 
soldier,  he  asks  no  questions,  but  obeys. 

I  have  just  finished  reading  John's  letter  in  which  he 
tells  of  his  visit  to  Vladivostok,  and  it  was  a  dandy 
letter.  There  are  three  phrases  that  hit  me  funny, 
though,  when  he  was  describing  the  town.  He  said  he 
had  to  sleep  on  an  "uncomfortable  army  cot"  and  had 
"on/y  four  blankets."  I  have  seen  many  a  time  when 
a  fagot  of  straw  and  one  blanket  in  a  ruined  Belgian 
farmhouse  looked  like  the  Palace  Hotel,  and  you  had  no 
scruples  about  coaxing  a  flea-bitten,  Belgian  cur  full  of 
cooties,  to  sleep  alongside  to  help  keep  you  warm.  Then 
he  said  he  "hadn't  had  a  bath  for  nine  days !"  Why,  the 
dirty  thing!  When  I  hit  Le  Thiel  I  hadn't  had  a  bath 
for  nine  weeks,  and  since  I  have  been  in  France  I  have 
had  just  three  tub  baths.  One  in  Paris,  one  in  Meulbeke, 
in  a  German  debusing  plant,  and  one  here  in  Le  Thiel. 
And  as  for  varmints — for  activity,  meanness  and  gen- 
eral sticktoitiveness,  I'll  put  the  present  day  cootie 
against  anything  its  weight  in  the  world.  They  started 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  91 

with  the  Russians,  at  that  time  being  small,  inoffensive 
little  critters,  but  the  Prussians  got  'em  from  the  Russian 
dugouts  and  brought  them  to  the  Western  front.  They 
were  neutral  cusses  and  played  back  and  forth  between 
the  lines,  so  by  the  time  we  came  along  they  were  a  mix- 
ture of  Russian,  Prussian,  German,  Austrian,  British 
and  French  cooties.  And  my,  how  they  did  thrive. 
They  are  tenacious  as  a  young  bull  pup,  but  we  are 
gradually  shaking  them  off  and  while  they  are  not  in 
the  least  particular  when  or  where  they  feed,  they  never 
go  to  the  same  place  twice.  One  of  my  men  came  in  for 
a  new  undershirt  the  other  day  as  his  old  one  was  torn 
in  half.  It  seems  he  took  it  off  one  day  for  a  few  min- 
utes and  while  it  was  laying  on  the  floor  half  the  popu- 
lation decided  to  move  north  and  the  other  half  to  move 
south  with  the  result  that  the  strain  was  too  great  and 
the  fabric  could  not  stand  it,  but  ripped  squarely 
down  the  middle  of  the  back !  Needless  to  say,  the  man 
got  the  new  shirt.  If  a  bed-bug  ever  gets  on  one  of  these 
men  it  will  feel  like  a  lone  steer  trying  to  feed  on  a 
pasture  that  a  flock  of  sheep  have  been  over.  And  if  a 
couple  of  cooties  ever  find  that  bed-bug  trespassing  they 
will  chew  him  up  so  badly  that  his  own  mother  will 
sing,  "Oh,  Where  Is  My  Wandering  Boy  Tonight."  John 
and  I  ought  to  be  able  to  swap  some  pretty  good  lies 
when  we  get  together. 

I  am  enclosing  a  poem  which  is  sad  but  true,  and 
while  not  couched  in  the  best  of  meter  and  rhyme,  it 
expresses  our  sentiments.  Would  you  see,  Dad,  that 
Ed  and  Becky  both  get  a  copy  of  it?  I'd  type  it  over 
here  but  I'm  a  darn  poor  steno,  so  thank  you. 

We  are  lying  here  in  the  debarkation  area  waiting 
for  our  orders  to  hit  the  home  trail  which  should  come 
when  we  are  fully  equipped,  etc.  But  as  there  are  about 


92  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

twelve  divisions  in  the  same  area  all  trying  for  the  same 
thing,  I  wouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  we  didn't  get  out 
of  here  until  the  middle  of  April.  So  please  don't  stop 
writing  until  you  receive  a  cable  from  me  actually  stating 
that  I'm  on  my  way.  For  I  may  not  come  home  with 
the  division.  They  need  a  bunch  of  officers  over  here 
for  M.  P.  work,  R.  T.  O.'s  and  as  construction  super- 
intendents for  the  labor  battalions,  and  are  asking  for 
officers  to  volunteer  for  those  jobs.  To  show  you  how 
popular  the  idea  is  there  wasn't  a  single  officer  from  this 
regiment  that  volunteered.  You  know  the  army  system 
well  enough  to  realize  that  when  we  fill  out  qualification 
cards  before  we  go  to  the  port  of  embarkation  and  they 
see  mine  they  will  say:  "Fine,  one  too  many  officers  in 
that  outfit  anyway.  We  will  just  keep  this  one  for  six 
months  or  so."  Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  kept  a  boot- 
black stand  in  civil  life.  Well,  if  it  comes,  perhaps  it 
may  all  be  for  the  best,  although  it  is  sometimes  darn 
hard  to  see  it  that  way. 

Art  Erb  and  I  have  put  in  for  a  leave  together — you 
know  they  call  us  the  Siamese  twins — and  we  are  going 
away  out  on  the  point  of  the  Bretagne  coast  and  just 
loaf  around  for  a  week.  We  hope  to  get  to  some  tiny 
little  fishing  village  and  just  lead  the  simple  life,  per- 
haps going  out  with  some  peculiar  old  Breton  for  a  day 
or  so.  We  figure  we  will  have  a  better  time  than  if  we 
went  to  Nice  or  the  Riviera  where  we  would  have  to 
keep  dressed  up  all  the  time.  If  we  are  kept  over  here 
we  are  going  to  see  London,  Scotland,  Rome,  Naples  and 
Venice  before  we  come  back,  as  England  and  Italy  have 
been  opened  up  as  leave  areas  now.  It  would  be  a  little 
consolation,  but  not  so  very  much,  as  we  both  want  to 
see  California's  hills  in  the  spring  time  pretty  badly. 
Well  we  may  at  that. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  93 

This  is  a  mighty  poor  letter,  people,  but  it's  a  cold 
gloomy  day  and  I'm  afraid  I'm  susceptible  to  the 
moods  of  the  weather.  However,  these  few  lines  I  have 
scratched  down  will  serve  the  purpose  to  tell  you  all 
that  I'm  feeling  pretty  good  for  an  old  man  of  twenty- 
seven  (five  days  ago),  enjoying  my  normal  good  health 
and  hope  and  pray  that  we  quit  marking  time  pretty 
soon  and  step  out  for  St.  Nazaire  or  Brest.  When  we 
mount  that  old  gangplank,  Oh,  Boy!  Hold  tight!  I 
hope  you  have  received  my  telegram  by  this  time  tell 
ing  you  that  the  prodigal  son  is  "Homeward  Bound." 

MITT. 


94  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXV 

FRIENDSHIP 

NOGENT  LE  ROTROU, 
FEBRUARY  19,  1919. 
DEAR  PEOPLE  ALL  : 

BACK  to  the  old  stand  again,  but  hardly  ready  for 
business.  My  two  weeks'  vacation  was  a  good  one 
but  all  the  joy  has  been  taken  out  of  life.  It  is  hard 
enough  to  come  back  to  a  six  o'clock  reveille  and  squads 
east  and  west,  after  two  weeks  of  eleventh-hour  risings 
and  days  of  luxurious  ease,  but  it  is  doubly  hard  when 
you  find  an  order  transferring  your  buddie  to  the  Army 
of  Occupation,  especially  when  the  two  of  you  had  been 
planning  on  what  you  were  going  to  do  as  soon  as  you 
got  out  of  this  man's  army.  But  such  is  life  in  the  army. 
I  have  never  had  a  closer,  better  or  truer  friend  than 
Arthur  Erb,  and  a  finer  lad  never  trod  the  face  of  God's 
green  earth.  Fearless,  a  brave  fighter  (many  less  brave 
were  awarded  the  D.  S.  O.)  an  excellent  officer  and  one 
of  those  "rara  avis,"  a  gentleman.  We  have  fought 
together,  slept  together  and  shared  each  other's  last  tin 
of  bully  beef,  last  sou,  and  even  shared  our  letters  if  a 
mail  happened  to  be  at  all  partial.  We  have  been  bud- 
dies in  the  finest  sense  of  the  word  and  a  friendship  that 
has  been  as  constant  as  ours  has  for  two  years  is  not 
easily  broken.  It  is  not  possible  in  civil  life  to  have  a 
friendship  as  close  as  one  forms  in  the  army.  You  see 
your  friends  at  most  an  hour  a  day  and  pass  the  time 
pleasantly  with  them.  You  have  other  friends,  other 
amusements,  other  interests.  In  the  army  you  have 
your  buddie— what  is  yours  is  his.  You  never  go  any- 
where if  you  can  help  it  without  him,  and  you  look  to 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  95 

him  as  he  looks  to  you,  for  amusement,  entertainment, 
solace  or  congratulation.  If  he  has  a  stroke  of  luck  you 
feel  better  about  it  than  if  it  had  happened  to  you.  So 
tomorrow  Art  and  I  part  company  for  a  long  time.  As 
long  as  I  am  in  the  army  I'll  never  have  another  friend 
like  Art;  I'll  play  the  game  alone,  for  another  I  might 
go  with  could  never  take  his  place  and  would  only  tend 
to  cheapen  what  has  been  a  wonderful  friendship. 

Art  is  all  broken  up  about  going.  In  Belgium  where 
he  signed  up  for  the  army,  I  tried  to  dissuade  him,  but 
he  would  insist  on  it.  Well,  here's  a  prayer  that  he 
won't  be  kept  over  here  very  long,  for  he  will  resign  as 
soon  as  it  is  possible. 

Whatever  this  Rocky  Mountain  Club  is,  it  is  in  a 
fair  way  to  become  the  most  unpopular  institution, 
next  to  the  Prohibition  League,  in  the  United  States. 
There  is  no  sign,  as  yet,  of  our  departure  and  we  are 
without  any  mail.  How  in  Sam  Hill  this  R.  M.  C.  is 
going  to  distribute  our  mail  when  we  land  is  more  than 
I  can  tell,  for  we  are  going  to  be  split  up  geographically 
before  we  leave  France.  That  is  to  say,  all  of  the  men 
drafted  from  Northern  California  will  make  up  a  pro- 
visional regiment  to  be  sent  to  the  Presidio  for  demobili- 
zation, those  from  Southern  California  to  be  sent  to 
Camp  Kearny,  etc.,  so  you  can  imagine  the  job  the 
R.  M.  C.  is  going  to  have.  I  have  received  no  mail  since 
the  26th  day  of  January  when  I  went  on  leave,  so  of 
course,  I  expected  a  big  pile  yesterday — but  there  was 
a  letter  from  Ed.,  one  from  Dad  (a  carbon  copy — the 
original  of  which  had  been  sent  to  the  R.  M.  C.)  and 
one  letter  from  Becky.  And  all  of  them  said  they  didn't 
expect  me  to  get  them.  Dear  people,  please  keep  on 
writing  until  I  wire  you  from  New  York  or  even  phone 
you  from  the  Presidio,  for  some  of  us  are  sure  to  be  left 


96  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

over  here  on  different  jobs,  and  if  I  am  elected  I  want 
the  mail,  for  it  certainly  is  a  life  saver.  Do  please  keep 
on  writing  to  the  same  old  address.  Please ! ! ! 

I  guess  those  are  about  all  the  kicks  I  have  at  present 
so  enough  for  them. 

From  the  postals  I  sent  to  you  along  the  way  I  guess 
you  have  most  of  the  places  I  struck  while  on  leave  and 
we  had  some  time.  From  now  on  until  we  leave  France 
I  guess  it  will  be  all  good  hard  work  and  no  play,  for 
we  have  to  keep  the  men  occupied  in  some  way. 

Art  and  I  are  now  going  for  our  farewell  walk  and 
talk  and  I  know  I  will  feel  more  like  tears  than  any- 
thing else. 

So  for  the  present,  bye-bye,  but  I'll  write  to  you  all 
about  our  trip  in  a  few  days. 

Just  the  same, 

MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  97 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 

NOGENT  LE  ROTROU, 
MARCH  2,  1919. 
DEAR  DAD  AND  MOTHER  MINE  : 

BY  THE  time  you  get  this  wee  note  Lil'  Emy  will  be 
facing  the  billows  of  the  mighty  Atlantic  westward 
bound  or  crying  his  eyes  out  in  some  darn  replacement 
camp.  There  is  but  little  chance  of  the  latter,  however, 
and  as  the  division  has  to  be  clear  of  St.  Nazaire  by  the 
first  of  April  you  may  expect  to  see  my  portly  form 
come  waddling  up  Market  street  some  time  between 
the  tenth  and  twentieth  of  April.  Listen  to  us  people — 
all  we  sit  and  talk  about  now  is  what  we  are  going  to 
eat  when  we  get  back — and  what  good  shows  (funny) 
there  will  be  to  take  in.  For  we  want  to  forget  as  much 
as  possible  all  of  the  life  we  have  gone  through  "over 
there."  Of  course,  we  won't  mind  telling  you  about  all 
of  our  fights,  trials  and  tribulations,  but  we  want  to 
lead  a  life  diametrically  opposed  to  the  one  we  have 
been  leading. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  we  are  not  a  lot  coarser  than 
when  we  went  away.  Well,  if  we  are,  when  we  get  back 
to  the  land  of  bathtubs  and  finer  instincts  I'm  sure  that 
in  a  couple  of  weeks  most  of  it  will  be  washed  off  of  us. 
Gosh,  I'm  going  to  have  a  hot  bath  every  morning  for 
six  months  after  I  get  back  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
It  is  nothing  to  wear  a  shirt  over  here  for  three  weeks, 
and  two  weeks  is  considered  proper  for  underwear.  But 
I  sure  do  look  forward  with  great  relish  to  a  tub  bath 
whenever  I  feel  so  inclined. 

We  are  gradually  getting  rid  of  the  cooties  and  other 


98  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

accumulations  of  France  so  that  when  we  hit  the  plank 
we  will  be  as  sweet  and  fresh  as  a  new  blown  rose. 

Well,  people,  there's  a  great  day  a  coming  and  I'll 
be  there. 

It  was  certainly  fine  of  Mr.  Bowles  to  show  that 
much  interest  in  me  and  I  will  sure  go  around  and  see 
him  as  soon  as  I  get  into  my  civies.  For  from  what  I 
can  learn  jobs  are  mighty  scarce  on  the  coast  now  and 
will  be  a  lot  more  so  when  this  bunch  hits  it. 

Did  I  tell  you  I  saw  Bob  Monroe  at  Nice  ?  He  was 
down  there  taking  part  in  the  A.  E.  F.  tennis  tourna- 
ment, and  is  a  captain  now.  He  asked  after  your  health 
and  wished  to  be  remembered  to  you. 

I  was  talking  to  Frank  Postlewaithe  the  other  day 
about  what  he  intended  to  do  after  being  mustered  out 
and  he  figures  on  going  into  the  import  and  export  game. 
Says  he  believes  it  will  be  the  biggest  of  America's  new 
business  on  account  of  the  large  investment  at  present 
in  shipbuilding.  I  think  he  is  right. 

Well,  people,  a  month  from  today  and  I'll  be  "Home- 
ward Bound,"  so  pray  for  a  speedy  boat.  Love  to  all  the 
different  varieties  and  best  of  love  to  you  two. 

THE  KID. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  99 

CHAPTER  XXVI I 

POST  SCRIPTUM 

AT  HOME, 
AUGUST  5,  1919. 

WE  HAD  so  many  rumors  about  starting,  and  so  many 
false  starts  from  France  that  when  we  finally  left 
Nogent  le  Rotrou,  between  Chartres  and  LeMans,  none 
of  us  could  fully  realize  that  we  were  really  and  truly 
"Homeward  Bound"  even  though  the  band  kept  play- 
ing it.  For  three  days  we  were  kept  in  an  isolation  camp 
at  St.  Nazaire,  and  on  March  20,  1919,  boarded  the 
U.  S.  Transport  Kentuckian—  "Oh,  Boy,  wasn't  it 
a  grand  and  glorious  feeling!"  The  Kentuckian  wasn't 
much  for  class  or  speed,  but  as  one  of  my  boys  had  it, 
"I'd  have  been  content  with  standing  room  on  a  raft." 
After  eleven  days  of  uneventful  coasting  along  the  At- 
lantic we  pulled  up  in  the  harbor  of  New  York.  The 
wind  was  blowing  down  the  bay,  bringing  us  the  good 
old  air  of  the  U.  S. — but  it  wasn't  the  wind  that  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  tears  that  rolled  down  our  cheeks. 
Even  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  while  she  looked  pretty 
good,  did  not  get  me,  but  when  I  saw  Jim  Rolph  coming 
down  to  meet  us  on  a  big  tug  boat  and  a  band  playing 
"Home  Sweet  Home"  I  am  free  to  admit  I  cried  like  a 
baby.  Then,  for  two  weeks  we  hung  around  Camp 
Merritt,  all  of  us  crazy  to  get  out  to  "God's  Country," 
but  spending  our  hard-earned  cash  in  New  York  every 
day  we  could  get  off.  We  didn't  go  to  see  light  opera  or 
war  plays,  but  our  delight  was  to  eat  real  American 
food,  see  good  clean  comedies  or  grand  opera  and  sleep 
in  real  American  beds  again.  I  was  in  New  York  twelve 


100  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

times  and  I  had  twenty  baths.  That  was  one  luxury  I 
could  not  get  enough  of. 

When  we  finally  stepped  on  a  train  headed  west,  how 
slowly  the  time  did  go — it  would  make  a  long  story  to 
tell  of  the  games  of  bridge  whist,  black  jack  and  poker 
we  risked  our  coin  in  to  make  us  forget.  We  all  sat  up 
the  night  we  crossed  into  California,  and  I  lay  awake  in 
my  bunk  looking  through  the  chinks  in  the  snow-sheds 
at  my  beloved  hills.  In  the  morning  we  woke  up  in 
Sacramento,  and  noon  found  me  again  with  my  loved 
ones  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  ten  months.  The  mem- 
ories of  that  day  are  mighty  sweet,  but  not  very  clear, 
and  that  night  when  we  again  started  for  the  "city 
that  knows  how"  there  wasn't  very  much  sleep  in  the 
crowd.  I  stayed  awake  until  we  reached  the  Oakland 
Mole  for  I  wanted  to  see  the  lights  of  San  Francisco 
winking  at  me  from  across  the  bay. 

You  all  know  the  rest — how  we  tried  to  march  up 
Market  street  to  the  Civic  Center — but  you  wouldn't 
let  us.  You  read  in  our  hearts  that  we  were  hungry  for 
love  and  you  opened  up  your  hearts  and  gave  us  all  the 
love  you  had,  and  it  was  too  much  for  us  all  at  once. 
Now  when  we  try  to  tell  you  of  it  you  won't  listen.  And 
while  we  swear  up  and  down  that  we  are  all  "fed  up" 
with  war,  there  are  but  very  few  of  us  that  wouldn't 
put  our  shoulders  behind  Uncle  Sam  again  and  give 
him  all  we  have  if  he  really  needs  us  in  a  righteous  cause. 

EMMET. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  101 

CHAPTER  XXVI 1 1 

TO    A    FRIEND 

NOVEMBER  16,  1918. 
SOMEWHERE   IN  BELGIUM. 
JAS.  MARTIN,  COLFAX,  CAL-. 
MY  DEAR  Boss : 

As  MUCH  as  I  hate  to  say  it,  boss,  I'm  afraid  you  are 
a  bit  of  a  slacker  as  far  as  correspondence  is  con- 
cerned. With  lots  of  time  and  not  much  to  do,  a  steno 
handy  and  plenty  of  paper  and  envelopes,  still  I  have  not 
heard  a  word  from  you.  Harry  Pete  came  through  with 
a  dandy  newsy  letter,  but  nary  a  word  from  you  or 
Uncle  Bob.  Now  I  'm  going  to  return  good  for  evil  and 
show  you  I'm  a  good  Christian,  by  writing  you  an  ac- 
count of  my  troubles  and  travels  and  please  furnish  the 
story  of  it  to  Uncle  Bob  and  any  other  old  timers  whom 
you  might  think  of  that  would  still  be  interested  in  me. 
I  hope  all  of  my  old  friends  haven't  forgotten  me,  for  I 
sure  do  some  tall  thinking  of  the  days  I  spent  in  the 
high  hills  among  the  best  of  friends.  Those  were  the 
happiest  days  of  my  life,  and  I  wouldn't  be  at  all  sur- 
prised if  I  spent  the  Fourth  of  next  July  in  Colfax,  and 
put  in  the  fifth  on  the  Boardman.  I'm  still  in  the  game 
and  if  the  P.  G.  &  E.  needs  me,  I'm  their  man.  I'd 
like  to  go  back  and  start  where  I  left  off. 

By  the  way,  Boss,  how  about  that  proposition  in 
China?  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  more  about  it?  I 
think  Becky  and  Sara  would  have  great  sport  out  of  it. 
Have  you  seen  Princess  Pat  lately?  Becky  tells  me  she 
is  a  regular  French  doll,  and,  believe  me,  I'm  crazy  to 
see  her. 

I  left  Camp  Lewis  June  1 8th  on  an  advance  detach- 


102  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

ment  from  the  division,  and  ten  days  later  we  sailed 
from  "An  Atlantic  Port"  better  known  as  New  York. 
We  had  an  uneventful  trip  across  the  puddle  except  for 
a  couple  of  sub  scares  that  didn't  amount  to  much. 
Landed  at  Liverpool  and  then  by  train  to  Southampton 
where  we  embarked  for  France.  The  trip  across  England 
was  beautiful  and  we  certainly  did  enjoy  the  lovely 
homes  and  beautiful  countryside  after  eleven  days  at  sea. 

The  trip  across  the  channel  was  made  at  night  and  it 
was  some  rough.  There  being  a  scarcity  of  bunks,  I 
slept  on  the  floor  of  the  dining  salon  and  was  unfortu- 
nate to  pick  an  aisle,  and  every  poor  devil  that  got  sick 
stepped  on  my  face  and  stomach  in  his  hurry  to  get  to 
the  starboard  rail. 

We  landed  in  Havre  on  a  beautiful  morning,  but  the 
impression  I  got  of  France  from  that  city  was  far  from 
favorable,  and  it  has  been  a  lasting  one.  From  there  I 
went  to  school,  in  the  eastern  part  of  France,  for  four 
weeks,  when  I  rejoined  my  regiment  which  was  in  train- 
ing in  central  France.  After  two  weeks'  work  there  we 
started  up  to  the  front  by  easy  stages  on  foot.  We  took 
part  in  the  Saint  Mihiel  drive ;  we  were  in  the  beginning 
of  the  drive  in  the  Argonne  Forest  and  had  ten  days  of 
hard  fighting.  We  were  cited  for  our  action  there,  and 
as  the  king  of  Belgium  needed  some  help,  we  were  sent 
up  here  and  were  in  the  fight  from  the  first  of  November 
until  the  armistice  was  signed.  We  were  all  ready  to  go 
"over  the  top,"  and  fifteen  minutes  before  zero  hour 
received  word  of  the  cessation  of  hostilities.  It  was 
quite  a  dramatic  moment  and  one  I  will  never  forget. 
We  have  had  some  damn  hard  fighting  and  have  gone 
through  hell  looking  death  in  the  face  in  its  most  terrible 
form.  We  have  had  all  of  the  horror  of  war  so  far  and 
darned  little  of  the  glory  of  it,  although  the  smiles  and 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  103 

welcome  given  one  by  the  Belgians  we  have  relieved 
make  it  seem  a  little  more  worth  while. 

Now  that  the  fighting  is  practically  over  the  boys 
are  all  talking  about  what  they  are  going  to  do  when 
they  get  home.  The  question  is,  now  that  we  have  done 
our  bit,  what  are  the  employers  going  to  do  for  those 
lads  who  went  away  and  offered  up  their  all  to  save  that 
employer's  business?  Will  they  be  given  their  old  jobs 
or  their  equivalent  back  again  ?  I  have  seventy-five  men 
in  my  platoon,  all  of  them  high  class  men,  as  specialists 
have  to  be,  men  above  the  average,  and  only  about  five 
of  them  are  sure  about  jobs  when  they  are  discharged 
from  the  army.  Take  my  own  case.  Would  you  take  me 
back  at  my  old  job  at  my  old  salary?  Could  you  tell 
P.  M.  D.  that  the  district  needed  me?  I  am  afraid  he 
would  tell  you  that  you  have  been  getting  along  without 
me  O.  K.,  and  should  be  able  to  continue  to  do  so.  Has 
business  learned  that  it  can  get  along  with  less  help?  If 
so,  what  are  the  boys  of  the  National  army  to  do  when 
Uncle  Sam  says,  "I'm  all  through  with  you  lads.  Go 
back  to  your  homes — thank  you." 

It's  a  big  problem,  Boss,  and  it  is  going  to  need 
solving  "toute  de  suite."  Of  course,  a  lot  of  the  lads 
who  held  down  desk  jobs  before  will  never  go  back  to 
them.  They  have  had  a  taste  of  outdoor  life  now  and 
they  would  never  be  satisfied  to  go  indoors.  I  look  for  a 
big  movement  "back  to  the  earth"  and  a  settling  of  a 
large  number  of  homesteads  in  the  Dakotas,  Idaho  and 
Canada.  I  also  believe  that  there  will  be  a  large  amount 
of  construction  work  done  and,  if  there  is,  me  for  it. 

During  the  fighting  all  I  could  think  of  was  that 
twenty  acres  of  prunes,  but  now  I'm  rested  up  and 
feeling  fine  and  full  of  pep,  I  know  I'll  want  to  get  back 
into  our  game  or  into  business  life  of  some  sort. 


104  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

Please  drop  me  a  line  and  give  me  the  real  hop  on 
Drum  District.  Harry  Pete  did  pretty  well,  but  I  want 
to  hear  from  you.  Get  that  ?  Now  please  come  through. 
Give  my  best  to  all  the  bunch  in  Colfax  and  Drum 
District,  and  make  it  seem  personal  as  though  I  had 
inquired  for  each  by  name.  To  Sara  and  the  kiddies  my 
best  love  and  I'm  sure  looking  forward  to  the  time  I 
can  stretch  my  kicks  into  your  fireplace  in  the  little 
grey  home  on  the  hill  and  have  a  good  heart-to-heart 
with  you. 

Just  the  same, 

MITT. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  105 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
s.  o.  s. 

When  the  other  bird  from  the  S.  O.  S. 

Sits  down  to  his  steak  and  pie, 
He  proclaims  his  wrath  with  a  scorching  tongue, 

And  swears  he'd  rather  die 
Than  count  out  cans  of  monkey  meat, 

And  check  off  loaves  of  punk ; 
That  he  wants  to  fight  and  hit  the  gaff, 

And  a  lot  of  other  bunk. 
He  wears  a  good  old  campaign  hat 

And  a  pair  of  russet  dogs ; 
He  has  a  little  mademoiselle 

To  share  his  dialogues, 
While  the  man  in  arms  contents  himself 

With  a  can  of  old  "Corned  Bill," 
He  casually  reads  his  undershirt, 

For  his  literature  is  nil. 
He  wears  a  Stetson  made  of  tin ; 

His  dogs  weigh  many  a  pound, 
When  nightfall  comes  he  builds  his  flop 

And  turns  in  on  the  ground. 

You  read  a  lot  of  phoney  junk 

About  Y.  M.  C.  A.s 
But  for  all  the  fun  the  fighter  has 

You  can  bet  your  socks  he  pays. 
Somebody  says  down  in  "Paree," 

There's  a  "Y"  there  that's  a  bear, 
But  the  front-line  troops  don't  benefit, 

For  the  S.  O.  S.  are  there. 
Up  where  the  big  boys  scream  and  howl — 

And  there's  gas  and  hell  and  all, 
They're  a  myth,  these  red  triangle  men, 

Up  where  your  comrades  fall. 


106  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 


Here  we'll  have  to  pause  and  say 

A  kind  word  for  a  chap, 
He's  the  good  old  Red  Cross  man — 

He  goes  up  where  they  scrap. 
He  passes  out  all  that  he  has 

And  does  it  with  a  smile, 
While  the  other  bloke  grabs  for  the  francs 

Like  a  miser  o'er  his  pile. 

Back  to  the  bird  in  the  S.  O.  S. 

With  a  sorry,  doleful  plight, 
Who  really  hates  to  count  shoe  strings 

And  thinks  he  wants  to  fight. 
I  crave  to  take  these  burning  youths 

By  their  soft  and  slender  hands 
And  lead  them  to  the  scene  of  hell 

That's  bound  by  moral  bands; 
But  it's  now  too  late  and  they're  going  back — 

These  boys  from  the  S.  O.  S. 
They'll  be  the  heroes  from  "over  there" 

And  we'll  stay  here  till  we  rot,  I  guess. 
They'll  tell  of  how  they  drove  the  Huns 

From  the  Marne  to  the  River  Vesle, 
While  the  man  who  actually  bit  the  chunk 

Is  still  reading  A.  E.  F.  mail. 
They'll  tell  of  how  they  took  the  heights 

Of  dizzy  Montfaucon, 
And  in  the  siege  of  the  Argonne  woods 

Of  how  they  carried  on. 
We'll  occupy  "der  Vaterland" 

As  we  are  doing  now 
And  eat  that  Chinese  Army  grub 

Better  known  as  "Raw  Tin  Chow." 

Some  day,  perhaps,  our  scow  will  sail, 
And  take  us  across  the  foam; 

But  the  only  thing  to  welcome  us 

Will  be  the  fact  we're  home. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  107 


The  cheering  throngs  with  welcome  arms 
Who  meet  our  brave  (?)  S.  O.  S. 

Will  be  dispersed,  and  passers  by 

Will  say,  "More  of  these  birds,  I  guess." 

But  we'll  always  know  who  stripped  the  Boche 

And  bridged  the  River  Vesle, 
Who  reduced  the  salient  of  St.  Mihiel 

And  stormed  the  Argonne  trail. 
The  S.  O.  S.  will  spill  their  load 

And  pull  the  hero  stuff — 
But  when  the  fighting  men  come  home, 

Say !  Watch  us  call  their  bluff. 

SGT.  C.  J.  MEIGS, 

Fourth  Engineers. 


108  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HEADQUARTERS  Co.,  363o  INFANTRY, 
A.  E.  F.,  A.  P.  O.  776, 
NOVEMBER  30, 1918. 

FROM  IST.  LIEUT.  EMMET  N.  BRITTON. 
To  MRS.  L.  M.  JUDD. 

SUBJECT:  PRESENT  STATUS  OF  FRANCIS  LEE  JUDD. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  JUDD: 

IHAVE  just  received  the  letter  written  on  November 
6th,  19 18,  by  your  son-in-law,  F.W.  Herbert,  and  ask- 
ing for  the  particulars  of  the  death  of  your  son,  Francis 
L.  Judd. 

Through  some  error  Lee  was  reported  dead  instead 
of  seriously  wounded,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sorry 
I  am  that  this  mistake  should  have  occurred,  nor  do  I 
know  of  any  reparation  that  can  be  made  to  you  for  the 
suffering  you  must  have  endured. 

Your  son,  Lee,  was  a  member  of  my  platoon  and 
was  with  me  when  we  went  over  the  top  on  September 
26,  1918,  in  the  Argonne  sector.  While  going  through 
the  Bois  de  Cheppy,  about  fifteen  miles  northwest  of 
Verdun,  we  were  subjected  to  heavy  shell  fire,  one  shell 
dropping  in  a  group  of  my  men  and  inflicting  heavy 
casualties  among  them.  Lee  was  in  the  group  and  when 
I  came  back  to  administer  first  aid  I  saw  him  and  gave 
him  a  drink  of  water  from  my  canteen.  He  seemed  very 
weak  but  still  alive  and  apparently  not  suffering  very 
much.  Then,  as  I  was  needed  up  on  the  front  line  and 
the  medical  department  were  coming  up  through  the 
woods,  I  knew  my  men  would  be  taken  care  of  and 
moved  out. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  109 

That  night  I  heard  that  he  had  died  and  I  assure 
you  that  it  was  with  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  that  I  heard 
the  report.  I  had  picked  out  your  son  as  one  of  the 
regimental  section,  which  was  composed  of  men  in 
whom  I  put  a  great  deal  of  faith.  Their  work  was  of  the 
hardest  and  they  came  through  in  good  shape.  I  had 
always  liked  him  for  a  good,  clean,  intelligent  lad  and 
had  never  found  him  otherwise  than  a  good,  willing  in- 
telligent worker. 

On  the  ninth  day  of  the  fight  I  was  sent  to  the  hos- 
pital sick,  and  on  rejoining  the  company  was  certainly 
pleased  to  hear  that  Lee  had  been  heard  from,  being  at 
that  time  in  the  hospital  and  getting  along  nicely.  As 
far  as  we  know  he  is  still  in  the  hospital,  and  probably 
by  this  time  you  have  received  other  letters  from  him 
which  have  convinced  you  of  the  error  made. 

Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  having  a  son  that 
is  a  brave  man,  a  good  soldier  and  a  good  comrade.  I 
certainly  hope  that  when  he  is  discharged  from  the  hos- 
pital he  will  return  either  direct  to  you,  or,  if  that  is 
impossible,  then  to  me. 

Yours  very  truly, 

EMMET  BRITTON. 

ist  Lieut.  Comdg.  Signal  Platoon, 
Hdq.  Co.,  363d  Inf. 


110  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

COPY  FROM  NEWSPAPER  CLIPPING 

WORD  TO  MOTHER. 

FIRST  LIEUTENANT  BRITTON  WRITES  AFFLICTED  PARENTS  IN 
CLOVERDALE  OF  SON. 

r  I  ^HE  following  letter  was  published  in  the  Clover- 
J_  dale  Enterprise  last  week,  January  5,  1919,  which 
was  sent  to  a  mother,  Mrs.  C.  Arthur  Baker,  who  lost 
her  son  in  the  service  "over  there"  and  was  written  by 
First  Lieutenant  Britton.  The  letter  is  as  follows  : 

MRS.  MATTIE  BAKER  : 

Dear  Madam — Your  son,  C.  Arthur  Baker,  was  one 
of  my  most  trusted  men  and  his  loss  has  been  very 
keenly  felt  by  all  of  us ;  we  not  only  miss  him  as  a  good 
soldier  and  a  good  operator,  but  we  miss  him  as  a  com- 
rade. He  was  loved  and  respected  by  all  of  the  men  in 
the  platoon  and  the  company,  and  I  had  recommended 
him  to  be  promoted  to  a  corporal. 

I  feel  you  will  feel  perhaps  less  keenly  the  loss  of  the 
lad  if  you  know  the  details  of  the  incidents  that  led  up 
to  his  death.  We  went  "over  the  top"  at  5 :30  a.  m.  on 
September  26th,  our  duty  being  to  drive  the  Hun  out 
of  some  very  strong  positions  in  the  Argonne  Forest, 
which  he  had  held  since  1914.  About  10  o'clock  that 
morning  we  set  up  the  Regimental  P.  C.  (Post  of  Com- 
mand) in  a  small  wood  near  a  deserted  farmhouse  that 
had  been  blown  all  to  pieces.  This  wood  is  about  mid- 
way in  the  triangle  formed  by  the  towns  of  Very, 
Cheppy  and  Aubreville.  The  nearest  large  town  is 
Verdun,  which  is  about  twenty  miles  east  of  this  place. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  1 1 1 

The  advance  had  been  so  rapid  that  we  had  been 
unable  to  string  wire  fast  enough  to  keep  up,  so  as  a 
message  had  to  be  sent  some  way,  we  set  up  a  radio 
station  and  Arthur  acted  as  operator.  It  was  while 
he  was  sending  a  message  that  the  Hun  began  shelling 
the  woods.  I  was  standing  alongside  of  the  boy  when 
he  was  struck  by  a  shell  fragment  which  hit  him  in  the 
left  breast.  Death  was  instantaneous  and  he  died  in  my 
arms.  As  the  next  shell  demolished  the  set,  I  picked  up 
the  rest  of  the  equipment  and  hurried  out  of  the  woods 
which  were  heavily  shelled. 

The  front  line  pushed  on  and  we  followed  for  five 
days  of  heavy  fighting  and  four  days  of  holding  on  be- 
fore we  were  relieved.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  was 
sent  to  the  hospital,  and  I  have  just  rejoined  the  com- 
pany. You  will  receive  shortly  all  of  the  lad's  personal 
possessions  which  he  had  on  him. 

My  heart  goes  out  to  you  in  this  trouble,  but  it  is 
some  consolation,  I  know,  for  you  to  be  able  to  feel  that 
your  boy  died  to  save  you  from  the  fate  of  these  Belgian 
women  we  see  every  day.  Your  son  was  a  brave  man,  a 
good  soldier  and  a  good  Christian.  He  died  for  his 
country  and  humanity  on  the  field  of  honor.  Assuredly, 
God  will  not  forget  those  who  have  died,  even  as  His 
Son  died — to  make  the  world  a  better  place  to  live  in. 

Believe  me,  Mrs.  Baker,  to  be  yours  very  sincerely, 

EMMET  N.  BRITTON, 

ist  Lieut.  }6}d  Infantry  Co.,  Signal  Platoon, 
A.  P.  0.  776,  Headquarters  Co. 


112  "AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 

CHAPTER  XXXI I 

REGISTER  OF  SERVICE 

1917—      May    4 — Entered  First  Officers'   Training  Camp, 

Presidio,  San  Francisco. 

August  14 — Commissioned  Second  Lieutenant,  R.  O. 
T.C. 

29 — Arrived  at  Camp  Lewis,  Washington. 
1918 — January  21 — Commissioned  First  Lieutenant. 
June  19 — Left  Camp  Lewis. 

20 — Spokane,  7  a.  m. 

21 — Missoula,  Mont.,  6  p.  m. 

22 — Minneapolis  and  St.  Paul. 

23 — Chicago,  3  p.  m. 

24 — Rochester  and  Syracuse. 

25 — Camp  Merritt,  8  p.  m. 

26— New  York. 

27— Boarded  S.  S.  Cretic,  New  York. 

28— Left  New  York  harbor  at  1 1  a.  m. 
June  29-July  10— On  the  Atlantic. 

10 — Arrived  at  Liverpool  by  train  to  South- 
ampton. 

11 — Sailed  from  Southampton  on  S.  S.  Prince 
George,  8  p.  m. 

12— Havre,  8  a.  m. 

14 — Left  Havre  at  noon. 

15 — Noisy-le-Sec  (near  Paris). 

16 — Neuf chateau  (S.  of  Nancy),  Gondrecourt. 
July  16- August  17 — First  Corps  School — Signal  Work. 

17 — Left  Gondrecourt  for  Mandres,  near  No- 
gent  (District  of  Haute-Marne). 

20 — Montigny-le-Roi. 

2 1 — Donnemarie. 

22— Odival. 

23 — Mandres. 

29 — First  letter  from  Becky.  Her  No.  four. 

31— Ageville. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  113 

September    4 — Mondres  to  Rolampont. 

6 — Rolampont  to  Gondrecourt. 
7-10— Bois  de  Epizez. 

11 — St.  Germaine  (near  Toul)  St.  Mi- 

hiel  drive.  AU; 

13— Pagny-sur-Meuse. 
14— Conde  on  Barrois. 
1 7 — Foucaucourt. 

18 — Forest  of  Argonne  near  Cleremont. 
19 — In  reserve  in  Bois  de  Hesse. 
19-24 — In  reserve  in  Foret  de  Hesse    (Argonne 

Forest). 
25 — Took  over  front  line  trenches  from  the 

French. 
26— Over  the  top  at  5 :25  a.  m. — captured  Very 

and  Epinonville. 

27 — Pushed  line  ahead  to  Eclisfontaine.  Gassed. 
28 — Held  at  Eclisfontaine. 
29 — Pushed  ahead  to  Tronsol  Farm. 
30 — Held  up  at  Tronsol  Farm. 


October    1 — Captured  Tronsol  Farm  and  dug  in. 
2-3 — Holding  on,  waiting  for  relief. 
4 — Evacuated  to  Hospital  at  Froidois. 
5 — Arrived  at  Base  Hospital  No.  42,  near 

Neufchateau  (Bazoilles). 
6-16— Base  Hospital  No.  42. 

17 — Returning  to  duty,  Is-sur-Tille. 
18— Is-sur-Tille  to  Paris  via  Dijon. 
19— Paris— left  at  8  p.  m.  for  Toul. 
20 — Toul  to  Bois  de  1'Eveque — First  Corps  Re- 
placement Battalion. 
20-27— Bois  de  1'Eveque. 

28 — To  Sommelomme  via  St.  Dizier. 

29 — Entrained  at  St.  Dizier  for  Belgium. 

30 — En  route  to  Dunkirk  via  Amiens  and  Bou- 

logne-sur-Mer. 
31 — Calais  at  8  p.  m. 


114 


"AS  IT  LOOKED  TO  HIM" 


November    1 — Roulers  via  Dunkirk.   Billeted  in  ruined 

convent. 

2 — Roulers  to  Iseghem. 
3 — Iseghem  to  Oostroosbeke. 
4-7 — Rejoined  363d  in  reserve  at  Paanders. 
8 — Moved  up  into  support  at  Weregem  Lede. 
9 — Weregem  Lede. 
Lys  10 — Crossed  Scheldt  River  at  Audenard  in  the 

Scheldt  a.  m.  and  drove  as  far  as  Tissenhove  via 

Offensive  Audenard. 

1 1 — Ready  to  attack  at  9  a.  m.  Received  word 
of  signing  of  Armistice  at  8:55  a.  m.,  five 
minutes  before  we  were  going  over. 
12-17— Rokegem. 
18-20— Hoogstraat. 
21-22 — Erwertegem  (near  Sottegem). 
23-25 — Asper  (near  Gavere). 
26-30— Mar ialoop  (near  Thiel).  Received  62  let- 
ters. 


December  1-3— Meulbeke. 
4 — Licterveldt. 
6 — Staden. 
7 — Proven;  38  kilos  to  Staden  across  "No 

Man's  Land." 

8 — Watou — "In  the  Chateau." 
9-27 — Watou  (near  Poperinghe). 

28 — Left  Watou  9  p.  m. ;  raining  hard. 
29 — On  the  Chemin  de  Per,  leaving  Belgium. 
31— Arrived  Nogent  le  Rotrou  4  a.  m.  Hiked 
fourteen  kilos  to  Le  Thiel. 


1919  —January  1-5— Le  Thiel  (near  Le  Mans). 

6-18 — Nogent-le-Rotrou — Signal  School. 
18-26— Le  Thiel. 

27 — Bellame.  Reviewed  by  General  Pershing  in 

snow. 
28-31— Le  Thiel. 


INTIMATE  LETTERS  ON  THE  WAR  115 

February  1 — Le  Thiel  to  Versailles. 

2— Versailles. 

3 — Moved  to  Nogent  le  Rotrou. 

4 — Nogent  le  Rotrou. 

5 — To  Paris  with  Art — en  route  to  Cette. 

6 — Cette-sur-Mer  via  Lyon  and  Tarascon. 

7 — Cette  to  Nimes. 

8 — Nimes — Avignon — Marseille. 

9 — Marseille  to  Nice. 
10-11— Nice. 
12— Menton. 
13— Nice. 
14 — Nice  to  Nimes. 
1 5 — Nimes  to  Toulouse. 
16 — Toulouse. 
1 7 — Toulouse — Versailles. 
18 — Versailles  to  Nogent  le  Rotrou. 


February  19- 

March  1 5 — Nogent  le  Rotrou — Waiting  for  the  word. 
16 — It  came — Entrained  for  St.  Nazaire. 
17 — Camp  No.  2,  St.  Nazaire. 
18 — Isolation  Camp,  St.  Nazaire. 
19 — Isolation  Camp,  St.  Nazaire. 
20— U.  S.  S.  Kentuckian,  St.  Nazaire. 

March  21-3 1— On  the  Atlantic— Homeward  Bound. 


April  1 — New  York — Camp  Merritt. 

2-13 — Camp  Merritt — frequent  visits  to  N.  Y. 
14-20 — Headed  west  on  a  real  train. 

21 — Hit  California  about  1  a.m.  Paraded  into 

Sacramento.   Saw  all  the  folks — Oh,  Boy! 

22 — Hit  San  Francisco  and  elbowed  our  way  up 

the  Path  of  Gold  to  Civic  Center. 
22-29 — Waiting  for  demobilization. 

30 — Honorably  discharged  from  the  United 
States  Army. 


CHAS.C.MOOKE&CO.  ENGINEERS 


DESIGN  AND 

CONSTRUCTION  OF 

COMPLETE   PLANTS 

POWER  LIGHTING 

PU=O  WATiRTuaE  STEAM  BOILER, 


THE  BAOCOCK  &  Wi ucox  COMPANY 


FRANCISCO,  Deo.   6,   1918 


ICy  Dear  Ur.  Britton:- 

Although  I  have  spoken  to  you  of 
the  satisfaction  afforded  me  in  reading  the  letter  from 
your  son  to  yourself,  dated  October  9th,  I  do  not  feel 
satisfied  to  omit  making  a  written  acknowledgment  of  the 
strong  impression  it  made  on  me. 

I  read  the  letter  to  my  wife  and 

children,  and  have  shown  it  to  friends.     It  is  such  a 
human,  manly  document  -  so  redolent  of  the  trenches  and 
the  fighting  front  that  it  gives  a  picture  strong  and 
graphic. 

I  want  to  thank  you  again  most 
appreciatively  for  your  courtesy  in  sending  me  a  copy. 

In  writing,  I  wish  you  would  give  to 
your  boy  an  expression  of  my  good  will  and  my  personal 
appreciation  as  one  citizen,  for  the  part  he  played  in  these 
epochal  times. 

With  warmest  personal  regards,  I  am, 
Yours  sincerely A 

ecu/us 

Mr.  John  A.  Brit ton 

445  Sutter  St., 

City. 


R  .  B  .  HALE 

BAN  FRANCISCO 


Mr.   John  A.Brltton, 
Pacific   Gas  &  Electric  Co., 
San  Franc  Isco 

My  dear  John: 

If  my  boy  were  called  "The  Kid",    and 
would  write  me  such  letters  as  you  have  re- 
ceived,  I  would  be< even  prouder  of  him  than 
your  boy  appears  to  be  of  his  Dad;    and  his  let- 
ters  Indicate  that  he   Is  exceeding  proud. 

It   is  a  generally  accepted  belief  that 
an  illustrious  father    is  rarely  followed  by  an 
equally  brilliant  son,    and  tho  you  have  made  a 
wonderful  record,   of  which  we  San  Franc isoans  are 
all  proud,  you  may  have  no  misgivings   in  permitting 
your  mantle  to  finally  rest  upon  the  shoulders  of 
this  lad,  who  knows  what  he  is  fighting  for, fights 
like  a  man,   and  yet  retains  that  human  sympathy 
which  is  the  foundation  stone  of  true  happiness. 

I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the  gr«at  pleas- 
ure you  have  given  me  in  allowing  me  to  read  these 
intimate  family  letters. 

Yours  very  truly, 


San  Francisco, 
November  twenty-fifth, 
Nineteen  eighteen 


PRINTED  BY  BRUCE  BROUGH    SAN  FRANCISCO   CALIFORNIA 


000  030  90?   7 


